


Night Changes

by louhearted



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Louis, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, I tried to make the best of it, Louis-centric, M/M, Winter, and in the end it´s just boys in love, like always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2755058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louhearted/pseuds/louhearted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Harry is buying last minute Christmas gifts for a party on Christmas Eve and gets snowed in the store with cashier!louis. Featuring side ziall and Liam, Niall and Zayn as Louis' best mates.</p>
<p>" Louis pushed his hands against the fabric of his pockets.</p>
<p>“You look like an adorable kangaroo.” Harry tried to stifle his giggle in his scarf, but Louis had seen his nose crinkle, and he knew that Harry found immense pleasure in moments like this.</p>
<p>“Do I now, Harold? You don’t look much better yourself.”</p>
<p>Harry tugged his scarf back underneath his chin and grinned. All of his teeth and every dimple and every crinkle were on display. “Thank you, Louis. I appreciate these kind words.”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome.”</p>
<p>If only he could just punch through the fabric of his coat and touch Harry’s stomach. If only he could, because he would; he didn't care for his stupid coat. Niall would surely lend him one of his until he could afford a new one, and if not, then he at least had Harry to keep him warm."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Changes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Creativewritings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creativewritings/gifts).



Louis hated Tuesdays.

Louis hated the neon glow of the cheap Christmas lights his boss had insisted on hanging all around their shop.

Louis hated the lingering smell of Christmas that always filled the store in December, a displeasing mixture of fear and stress.

Basically, Louis hated his job. He despised the fact that he needed the money that came with it so much that he'd even agreed to working on his birthday, on Christmas Eve. But his real job, the one that he actually enjoyed? Well, there was no money in that. Until there would be, until he could honestly call himself an author, he would have to mope around this grey shithole, Danny’s Den, a little while longer.

On top of everything, on top of his huge pile of unpublished poems and novels and a mountain of crushed hopes, he still had to pay off his student loans—student loans for a major he hadn't even enjoyed. Sure he had always wanted to help people, but in the end, he had realized that words helped more than any bandage ever could. As a result, he had dropped out of medical school, much to his mother´s worries. He’d decided that it wouldn't do him any good trying to follow in his mother’s footsteps, trying to make her proud with miserable promises.

He could do that by trying to be a decent human being, surely.

Sighing, he looked out of the small window to his right. Red and green lampions shimmered, casting a golden glow on the opposite side of the street. Their warm light made a few passersby stop and smile, ignoring the unforgiving cold around them for a moment. It made them remember the Christmas spirit, that one sacred thing from everyone’s childhood that lay untouched underneath everyone’s sour exterior. Some could scratch off all the bad memories from the last twelve months to enjoy fairy lights, and some couldn’t, but Louis always sought out those who could.

There was magic out there in the world. He tried to capture it every day on paper, but he didn't belong to the small group of wide-eyed people who stopped to stare at lights, ignoring their trembling fingers, stuffing them into their pockets absentmindedly instead. He didn’t belong with people who could ignore their runny noses and the rush around them, even though they surely must also be trying to catch the last pretty item on a shabby shelf in order to at least look sufficiently interested in the happiness of their distant relatives.

Okay, so maybe Louis was one of the depressing sort, but he liked to believe that it came with the package, that whole poet thing. At least he didn't drink. Not excessively, that was. He was an introvert, that’s all. Liam would’ve laughed at him if he had heard that since Louis had always been known as the loud, unabashed person who would talk to everyone all the time. He came off noisy and snarky, an all around (lovable) pain in the arse, but it was true.

Zayn would understand him. He also liked to keep himself to himself, yet he wasn't a shy or awkward loner. And neither was Louis, honestly. He just sometimes got into a mood where every soft-glowing light seemed like an exploding star, and with it came everything scary and everything impossibly beautiful.

He glanced at his watch. 17:00. He still had one hour to kill before he could flip the yellowing sign from open to closed and start cleaning up. He could be at home within two hours. He could just crash on his couch, waiting for his tea to boil and watch a stupid rom-com and—

A jingle rang through the air. A cold blast of wind swept through the room, and a few persistent snowflakes twirled into the dimly lit entrance. Biting on his tongue to keep his thoughts from spilling over his lips, Louis put on his best customer-friendly smile, turned towards the door—and froze.

The door had yet to fall shut and the chaos of traffic was still seeping into the stuffy silence of Danny’s Den. A car honked in the distance and Louis could have sworn that he could smell Mrs. Hunter’s cinnamon cookies from upstairs, but he was imagining a lot of things today apparently, because the figure that was standing on the ratty welcome mat, fuzzy sunlight softening his edges, couldn't have been real either.

He had a blue beanie tucked neatly over his head to protect his ears from the unbearable cold and a white scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. The rest of him was clad purely in black, sporting a peacoat and skinny jeans, which surely were illegal in some countries because even with the light on the boy’s back, Louis could see that they were too tight to be counted as normal jeans.

The boy was rubbing his hands together in a useless attempt to get the blood flowing in them again, and by doing so he looked hopelessly endearing.

Coughing, Louis tried to get the boy’s attention. Instead, his plan went terribly wrong, as the noise seemed to have startled the customer so much that he whirled towards the counter and tripped—over his own feet, Louis belatedly realized.

However, he couldn’t be blamed for his slow brain, seeing as he still had to get used to the fact that an actual angel had just strolled—or stumbled—into this hell hole. As the boy blinked up at Louis and shyly waved at him, Louis nearly laughed at the ridiculous green colour of his eyes, as green as the wild moss that grew around his parents’ house. They stood out in a stark contrast to the boy’s pink lips, which were turned up into an awkward smile as he straightened himself up and pulled the beanie from his head and, of fucking course, he had curls.

Louis gulped. What was wrong with him? This was just another customer. And okay, maybe he was rather good looking (not to say immensely hot), but Louis had turned twenty-two today, which meant he was an actual adult now and he could handle this with dignity; he would.

When Louis blinked, he realized that the boy was talking already and Louis was just standing there, staring. That couldn’t be the natural colour of his lips. No way. Mentally slapping himself on the forehead, Louis tried to focus on the actual words.

“…not like I don't have Christmas presents already, because I do, but there’s this party, and Nick… “

Nick. Nick, as in his boyfriend? No, he was getting ahead of himself. That boy could just as well be as straight as an arrow. He probably was. Maybe Niall had been right when he had scolded Louis for being caught in a dry spell for too long. But, it wasn’t Louis fault now, was it? He was available and wanting, he just didn’t have the time or the energy to get himself out there.

“…Anyway, he wanted me to get some last minute alcohol, but then I thought that if he insists on throwing a Christmas-themed party, he can't just gift his guests with alcohol, and then I had this idea...”

That Nick person sounded like a jerk, Louis decided. Why would he make his boy—no, his friend—run last errands for the Christmas party he had apparently planned?

He seemed like a dumb friend. Louis was way nicer.

“...Do you have anything like that? I mean, it doesn't have to be much, but I do think that it would be kind of cute if everyone could go home with a small gift at the end of the night. A small basket with lots of…stuff in it, perhaps.”

Was he serious? He wanted to buy everyone little gifts? Dear God that was just— Louis felt his stomach flutter excitedly and his organs drop seven levels lower (evidently right into Hell).

This didn’t usually happen to him, but for God’s sake, this boy was ridiculous. If he had had any sort of brain to mouth filter, he would have seriously censored his next words, but as it was, he didn't even realized that he had uttered them at all until he saw the boy’s reaction.

“Will you marry me?”

The boy was biting his lips, obviously trying very hard not to break into hysterics right then and there, but when Louis looked at him in shock and actually slapped a hand over his mouth, he couldn't help himself. And, honestly? Louis couldn't blame him when his body folded itself at his waist and he convulsed with laughter. His laugh was actually kind of beautiful, ridiculously loud and sweet. Louis would have kept on watching the boy make fun of him if he hadn't wanted to save at least the little bit of dignity he had left.

“Did you just slap your knee?” he asked with his eyebrow raised indignantly.

“Oops?” the boy offered, wiping actual tears from his eyes.

Who was this guy? Was Louis hallucinating and he just didn't know it yet? This guy could have come straight out of a comic book and Louis would have had less trouble believing that he was real than right now.

“Hi,” he said instead, and nodded briskly, trying to get a grip on himself.

“So,” the stranger said, and Louis hated himself for noticing that he had a drawl to his voice, a weird slowness that made it seem as if he was sure of his every word, as if he wanted to give each word the attention and the importance it deserved. Really, that seemed much smarter than Louis’ brainless blabbing. “Did you just propose to me?”

“I did, yes, but you see, it’s a new policy we’ve put in place only for Christmas. We want our customers to feel at home, so that’s why we at Danny’s Den offer our hands in marriage to our customers.”

Louis should really shut up, like, yesterday.

“I see, but doesn't that actually make a lot of customer more sad than happy? I mean, considering that you wouldn't be able to actually go through with most of your proposals. It is, after all, against the law. Not that there is anything wrong with polygamy, but imagine having a cute boy asking for forever with you and then you realize that you’re just one of many. “

“You’re bullshitting me right now, right?” Louis asked breathlessly, and stared at the intruder in amazement.

“How swiftly you dismiss our love!” he gasped, bringing a hand up to his chest in mock horror. The glint in his eyes made him seem really young. It made his green, green eyes shine like actual Christmas lights.

Louis needed to get his feet on safe ground again, and fast.

“So, did you actually want to buy anything, or are you just here to mock me? It’s been a long day, you know…” he coughed, “Sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Harry, but yes, I've told you what I want already.”

In Louis’ professional opinion, his smirk was really unnecessary. “And I listened to you, Harold. I’m just wondering why you would think that you can buy small Christmas-themed party gifts in this dump.”

“You should really improve your working morale. First you propose to your customers and now you're bringing down this wonderful establishment? I am shocked.” Harry had stuffed his beanie into the back pocket of his jeans. While Louis was still wondering how that could have possibly fit in there, Harry was already continuing with his teasing. “I mean, I guess I can’t blame you. This is really awful, especially the service. Phew, if you ask me, they should definitely invest in better cashiers, because—”

“Have you quite finished?” Louis said, crossing his arms in front of his chest defiantly. Only he was allowed to complain about this place. That was like some kind of unspoken rule, okay? He didn’t make them. (He couldn't quite recall who did at the moment, but it was definitely a law somewhere.)

“I have, yes, sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean to, like, offend you or something, I’m just…” And was Harry actually apologizing to him right now? Louis couldn’t help but gape.

“Calm down, Curly.” So yes, sue him, he still hadn't learned how to use that damn filter, but Harry did have curls, so that nickname was completely justified. “What did you have in mind, exactly?” Hopefully Harry wouldn't notice his slip up. He probably would, but he seemed like the kind of guy who would let it pass. He was a better person than Louis, Louis was relatively certain of that.

He was right. Curly (no one could stop Louis from calling him that in his mind) got right down to business.

He told Louis he wanted little gifts for the guests of his friend’s party.

Normal, really, everyone thought of things like that.

Louis was fine.

Trying to get his professional mask to slip back on again, he straightened his back and slowly walked towards the last aisle on the right, assuming that Harry would simply follow. Not turning back, he began to rattle down a few specials that would sure come in handy for someone like Harry, who seemed to rely on minimum wage, trying to get through whatever school he was currently in.

Louis had a sudden flash of panic as he realized that Harry looked young enough to still be in actual school. As in, like, illegal for whatever Louis’ subconscious had already painted in detail.

Stopping his robotic ramble, he slowly turned around. Having come to a rather abrupt stop, Harry had to try not to stumble right into Louis, as his eyes had apparently been trained on the ground.

“How much do you plan on spending in here, exactly?” Louis asked, trying to seem as nonchalant and uninterested as possible. This question was completely justified, considering that Louis had to be of service and such. There was no ulterior motive behind it whatsoever.

“Uhm, I don't know?” Harry raised his voice in uncertainty at the end, making it sound more like a question than a response. “My mate Nick, he gave me a few quid, but in the end it was my idea to get the presents, so I don't know if it’ll be enough…”

Louis' eyes crinkled up without his consent, a smile spreading over his features, lifting his cheeks.

“We'll start small then.”

Louis wasn’t lying when he described Danny’s Den as a dump. It would have been a really nice corner shop if it weren’t for the fact that it was owned and unfortunately, run, by none other than Danny Franklin, who had a nick for letting things go to terrible waste. The store was rather small, with six aisles rowing the floor and only two small windows at the front. Because of their unfortunate location in a basement room, and being pointed to the west, they let in next to no sunlight. Louis had complained about that long enough, but nothing could be done about it.

Thanks to Danny’s indecisive nature, the store had a small corner that could be counted as a miniature library—if tabloid magazines could be read as literature and the old saggy bean bag didn't repulse everyone immediately—and an aisle of food that was mostly packed with poison. Various shelves were stuffed with items ranging anywhere between small tea lights and crooked looking figurines, dishes and plates, postcards and actual furniture. A small wooden table from the flea market two streets down sat near a cracked mirror from Danny’s last girlfriend, which wasn't broken. “It’s vintage, Lewis.”

(Danny could go screw himself.)

So, Harry might even get lucky tonight. There was surely enough rubbish in here to please a small Christmas gathering, Louis was positive of that, and his thoughts were only confirmed by Harry stopping dead in front of Danny’s “vintage” findings.

He picked up a small glass elf that had a red nose and a blue pointy hat, with his pinkie finger spread comically aside as if he was afraid to touch the fragile figure with too much force.

“Isn't he adorable?” Harry gushed and turned towards Louis with childish wonder in his eyes.

“If you say so, Harold.” Louis tried very hard not to grin too obnoxiously. “I'm just worried about your friends. Do you think they’d be as delighted as you about small Merlin here?”

“You gave him a name?” Harry squealed, and Louis was sure that if his hands weren't occupied, Harry would have clapped them excitedly.

“Just the heat of the moment, I guess. Pointy hat and all.” Louis shrugged and considered Harry.

“I want him,” Harry declared. Louis was strangely reminded of his little sisters, who would go round a carnival with the same wonder etched onto their faces.

“You can, but what about your guests?” Louis was a professional, if anything.

“Well, they can't have him. He’s mine now.” Grown men were not supposed to pout, dammit. Nor were they supposed to look this fucking cute while doing so.

Shaking his head in some bizarre form of defeat, Louis tried to ignore the feeling of his chest swelling to about twice its usual size. He was serving an enormous man-child. Directing Harry to the last shelf of the shop, Louis stepped aside to allow Harry’s eyes to roam over the small treasures Louis liked to keep hidden here.

Cursing this place as often as he did, Louis couldn't deny that he had somewhat formed an emotional bond with it. Every time Danny wasn't paying attention (always), Louis would untack the store and save the few beautiful things he could find, storing them away for only the observing eye to discover. Or, Harry, in this case. Louis tried not to think about the “why” that must have driven him to share this far off corner of the shop.

”These are beautiful.” The awe in Harry’s eyes was as real as the snow that had started falling this morning, and it was just as miraculous.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Louis whispered, deeming it fitting to lower his voice. God knew for what reason, but Harry just nodded faintly and let his fingers dance across different kinds of figurines and pouches and jewellery.

……

Making his way to the front again, Louis was this close to banging his head against the counter until he was a normal human being again. What the hell had gotten into him right then? Embarrassing stupid dumb butterflies in his stupid stomach, stupid pretty boys and he was so, so screwed.

Letting his head drop pitifully onto the cold countertop, with much less force than his imagination had suggested, Louis watched his breath fog up the glass surface.

The snowflakes outside the shop twirled and twirled around, white spots against the darkening alley. They looked soft and thick, like candy floss before it was forced onto its stick. Louis tried to shake the feeling that it really wasn't normal London weather, neither were the thick snowflakes nor was the persistence of their occurrence. Instead, he tried to think of it as the magic of Christmas, or maybe even as a birthday present.

Tired, he glanced down at his watch again and sighed contently. He may have developed a teensy tiny crush on young Harold over there, but he was still looking forward to the promise of being able to close the shop in less than thirty minutes. Maybe the fact that he would be able to clear his head once he closed up, and could forget about Harry, shouldn't have been that great of a prospect, but it was. He felt vulnerable in Harry’s presence knowing that he had been way too deep from the moment that boy had stumbled over his own two feet and right into Louis’ life.

Louis was sure that he could outrun the boy easily, race him out of his thoughts.

As he let his thoughts run astray, Louis suddenly felt the weight of his notepad in his back pocket more than ever. Reaching for it with his left hand and stretching himself over the table to grab his abandoned pen, Louis began to think about snow and lights and Christmas and the force of storms that made stars fall from the black sky like candy floss.

He should have known that he'd forget the time once his mind was set into writing mode. It happened to him all the time, but he had never guessed that he would actually blend out another human being, until he heard someone cough in front of him.

Startled, he looked up.

Harry.

“Sorry, sorry, I zoned out. Did you find everything?” Louis hastily covered his notepad with his hands, while trying not to look as flustered as he felt.

“I did, yes, but—” Harry seemed to choke on his own words. Taking pity on him, Louis let him have his time to stutter through his thoughts by taking a glance on his watch. He had already worked half an hour overtime, and Louis seriously considered smashing his head in again. It hadn't seemed like such a bad idea then, and it certainly didn’t now.

“A friend of mine just called me, and—”

Louis furrowed his brows. A friend? Nick? Harry had been here quite some time, so maybe there had been a problem? Turning all his attention back to Harry again, who was still eerily silent, Louis noticed that Harry was nervously biting his lower lip, his teeth leaving small white indentations behind that blossomed with dark red colour again as he licked his lips and sighed. It looked… sinful.

“Is something wrong?”

Harry shrugged and started nibbling on his lip again.

“Not exactly.”

Louis was a very patient person when he had to be. Frankly, he never really considered anything worth the wait, never really cared for idly standing around for someone to get to the point. Weirdly enough, though, he gave Harry another minute to gather his wits. He seemed to be going somewhere with his thoughts, or tried to at least.

“Then what is it?” So Louis was a bad person, fine, but waiting seemed a bit stupid right now considering that he could have been on his way home already.

Harry pointed to the door and lifted his shoulders in a hopeless gesture again. Louis kept silent, hoping for Harry to drop the cryptic act and actually tell him what bugged him. Because, in all honesty, the distress displayed on his face also made him itch all over.

“Look outside,” Harry finally said, and Louis fought to tear his eyes away from Harry’s hand that had found a place on top of his head, tangling in a mob of unruly curls. Louis looked out the window, expecting to find the same soothing picture of snow drizzling down, splattering the pavement with feather light spots, footprints of an invisible snowman.

But, there wasn’t. In fact, Louis couldn't find one thing that would have deserved to be described as calm at all. Snow was churning through the alley, powerful and blinding, and the glistening dark concrete Louis had visualized was already blanketed by a rather thick layer of unbreakable white. The street seemed to be suffocating.

“What the—” Louis gasped.

“So yeah, that friend I mentioned? The one that just called? Well, apparently there’s a storm warning, and I think we might be in trouble.”

Louis would have found Harry’s eyes blown wide with either fear or sheer desperation, shifting restlessly, rather beautiful if he weren't also freaking out right now.

“What do you mean trouble? It’s just snow. Let me just check out your stuff and then we'll go back to our respective homes and—”

A shrill howl pierced the air: the wind.

Louis shivered involuntarily.

“We can't actually go anywhere.” Harry’s words seemed rushed despite their slow drawl and the rather unpleasant message behind them, which would have been entitled to a heavy silence in between every word to get its actual meaning across. In a tucked away corner of Louis’ mind, he thought of rocks weighing down every word, words written on crumpled paper, words that were sure to be heard when they dropped onto the floor, when they crashed and destroyed their wingless birds, when they burned through the anticipation-heavy air, when they clung to every shallow breath.

In that untouched part of his brain, Louis would later remember that Harry should have let his words bleed and not Louis, he should have let them crash through the wall of misunderstanding and not through Louis’ hope.

In hindsight, Louis could never have hoped for more.

“What do you mean?” Whispering, Louis suddenly felt dreadfully sober and began to realize what Harry was trying to say.

“We're snowed in. Or, at least we pretty much will be in about half an hour, and right now? Right now, well—”

Right now, the storm was still raging on, the pavement was fighting for breath, and the snow was trying to find a place to rest. They were living in a snow globe where everyone was just anticipating the next calm that would be as unnerving as the quaking earth and as gentle as the everlasting promise of beauty, when the snow began to twirl.

“Right.” Right, he could do this. Snowed into his own shop with a stranger. Snowed in, in London. On his birthday, on Christmas Eve. He'd find a way to make this sound less ridiculous someday.

“So, I guess we're stuck here.” Harry seemed oddly okay with that prospect.

“Sorry about your party,” Louis mumbled numbly and directed his eyes to the windows again. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw the relatively high piles of snow against the red brick walls and the emptiness of the street. He noticed the relentlessness of the snow and the cold draught that seeped even through their heavy door.

“Doesn't matter,” Harry shrugged. And, right, Louis had been talking to him. “Wouldn't have been what I wanted anyway.”

And now that caught Louis’ attention, because what the hell was that supposed to mean? He asked as much and finally fully turned towards Harry.

“I mean, parties can be pretty great, but I actually enjoy celebrating Christmas the traditional way more. You know, with a big tree and the family and lots of biscuits.” His eyes glazed over with memories, memories Louis suspected were from his early childhood, where the magic of Christmas was as real as the kiss goodnight from your parents.

“Well, you're not getting that here either.”

Harry shrugged, and if Louis wasn't completely mistaken he could have sworn that he even saw a small smile tug at the corner of Harry’s lips.

……

It took them another thirty minutes to fully come to terms with their situation and to reach the point of the night where it was obvious that it could go only two ways: extremely good or torturously bad. Louis had closed off the door and spread a blanket over the floor so that he and Harry could have somewhere to sit. (No, the bean bag still wasn't an option.) Asking Harry if he was hungry, he had taken out the last pieces in his lunch bag, silently planning to buy Liam a huge fruit basket or something when he was out of here because only thanks to his insistent nagging about him having to keep a healthy diet, going to the length of actually preparing Louis a meal as if he were five years old, Louis now still had a full water bottle, a chocolate bar (okay fine, Louis might have packed that) and two rather delicious sandwiches.

Sitting across from each other, Harry cross-legged and Louis with his legs outstretched, balancing his weight on his arms behind him, they contently munched on their sparse Christmas meal.

“So…” Harry started, wiping his thumb over his lower lip and catching a few stray crumbs.

“Louis. It’s Louis.”

“Louis,” Harry repeated and smiled. “What did you have planned for today?”

And well, if Louis was to answer that truthfully, the result would be just sad. Fall dead on his couch, turn on the TV, wait for Zayn to come home, snuggle up against him, wait for Liam and Niall to drop by, and celebrate his birthday by playing FiFa while being buried in a huge puppy pile of his best mates. He knew how pathetic that sounded, but it actually was kind of perfect. It was tradition.

Still, cute boys called Harry did not need to know that.

So in the end he settled for a meaningless “not much” and hoped that Harry wasn't that interested in a stranger’s personal life.

He was wrong. Apparently even that answer generated a sad pout and furrowed brow from Harry, who had tilted his head and had resumed biting his bottom lip raw. Louis should tell him to stop. For Harry’s own sake of course.

“But it’s Christmas Eve.”

And, honestly, as if Louis wasn’t well aware of that. But the way that Harry seemed to actually be upset about the thought that Louis didn’t seem to have something planned for the warmest night of December made him swallow down the sarcastic remark he had had ready on his tongue. A shrug would have to do.

“Good thing you have me then, right?” Louis started to seriously doubt the boy’s sanity, but the more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he was the only crazy person in this room, seeing as he was the one who was hopelessly endeared by Harry’s antics, no matter how weird or curious they were. The benefit of the doubt; that’s what both of them would need tonight. They were strangers forced together, locked in by an abnormal snowstorm, and they had to make the best of it. And what easier way to do so than by not second guessing every move? It actually sounded kind of liberating. Wasn't that what everyone else was always asking for? A room where society’s expectations would just fall away and one could be oneself?

This was it. Their snow globe was as much a prison as it was their get-away.

“I guess so.” He could give this a shot. He could pretend that this was a situation that was completely separated from the rest of his life, treat it as such, and try to never let the memory fade behind white, star-shaped rain. He could be whoever he wanted to be tonight. However, he had to painfully realize that he wanted to be no one else but himself, without restraint and without the burden of every day.

“I guess so,” Louis said again, a smile spreading over his face, melting away all dark thoughts and allowing honest words to sprout like flowers on their first green patch of spring. “It’s my birthday actually.”

“Today?” Harry spluttered, and for a moment he forgot that he had a mouthful of sandwich.

“Yes, Harold.” Fighting back a grin when his counterpart was trying to subtly get rid of stray crumbs was really harder than it sounded.

“Why didn't you say so earlier?”

“Didn’t come up, did it?”

“Well, we have to do something special then!” His eyes glistened with unabashed joy, and if Louis hadn’t been a goner before, he surely was now when he spotted the dimple in Harry’s cheek. He had dimples. Fucking dimples.

“And what do you suggest, love?” Louis was honestly curious. He had the feeling that Harry would manage to magic something up out of thin air. Being the better person, Louis ignored the blush that crept over Harry’s cheeks at his nickname. He was in too deep already, no need to further complicate things by wishful thinking.

“Close your eyes.” Harry´s voice was as soft as silk, the soft tenor making Louis’ hairs stand on edge. “And don't peek!”

Louis didn't obey and watched Harry scramble to his feet.

“You could rob my shop, for all I know. I will not let you roam around here while I have my eyes closed.”

“Who are you trying to convince here, Louis?” His dimple became more prominent. Louis thought he might actually faint, and yet he only crossed his arms and stared up at Harry, who had risen to his full height in front of him. No, Louis would not dwell on the position that put him in and he would most definitely not think about how perfect Harry’s legs were.

He wouldn´t. Didn’t. Hadn’t. Oh for God's sake, he was only human, alright?

“If I hear something funny—!” He threatened, and raised his finger in a failed attempt to look menacing.

“Yeah, yeah, you'll call the cops on me.”

“I had something else in mind, but I guess everyone loves a man in a uniform.” No brain to mouth filter, he had mentioned this before. It made life really rather difficult, but Harry just seemed to take it in stride.

“I don’t surrender easily.” And oh yes, the game was on. However, before Louis could retaliate with another innuendo portentous comeback, Harry spoke again. “Close your eyes.” Louis complied without thinking. Harry’s tone had made him pliant and he, other than Harry apparently, gave in way too easily.

The blackness behind his eyelids wasn't dark; there were spots of yellow and a flickering orange-pink as a result of the lights decorating the ceiling. It was welcoming. Shuffling into the same position Harry had been in a few moments ago, Louis put his hands on his crossed ankles and tried to concentrate on the noises around him, behind him to be more precise.

Harry wasn't exactly being stealthy. He made a huge ruckus, a joyful mixture of soft thunks and a string of carelessly spoken curses. Apparently he trusted Louis to keep his eyes closed through all of it, and Louis would, but not because he had promised to do so.

No, this was something different.

This was childish curiosity. This was him being one of the easily-amazed people with open hearts and kind eyes. If Louis just pretended long enough to not hear Harry, or to not see the connection between Harry stumbling and bumbling around and whatever end product he would produce, then maybe he could have a Christmas miracle. All he had to do was be patient. (Easier said than done, but for now he was all good.)

“Where’s your fuse box?”

And, wait?

“What?!” Louis’ eyes popped open.

“No, no, no, close your eyes! Don't ruin it now, I'm almost done.”

Reluctantly, Louis closed his eyes again. He was insane, trusting a stranger like this, but a little danger had never really stopped him before.

“It’s on the far end wall on the left.” Truthfully, Louis had never really been there himself, but he remembered Danny talking about it during his job interview. He was sure that whatever Harry had planned, he would find it.

“Which left?” Or not. How had Harry even found his way to the shop? He seemed to have no sense of orientation whatsoever.

“Your left, I guess? On the side of the counter, just go straight through.” Louis wasn't grinning, he wasn’t. His lips were just twitching, was all. And he honestly didn't softly giggle into his hand when he heard a triumphal yell from the back. He was a grown man, he didn't giggle.

“You can open your eyes now.” Harry’s voice was suddenly way too close. Louis could feel the hairs on his nape stand up and, shivering, he noticed Harry radiating heat against his back. Blinking slowly against the sudden brightness, Louis opened his eyes...

And what he saw was magical.

“How did you—”

There was no need to finish the question, nor did Louis have the air left in his lungs to say the words. Trying to take slow and deliberate breaths, Louis took in his new surroundings. He and Harry were engulfed in warm patches of light, the rest of the shop eerily dark. There were spots of green and spots of blue, a yellow patch and an orange hue. He could make out pink circles among the red splatters of light dancing around the edge.

If Louis didn't know the smell of Danny’s Den like his mum’s washing powder, he would have said that he had stepped out into the land of the fairies, maybe even paid good old Santa a visit.

After a while, Louis realized that the lanterns were the cheap lights he had cursed only earlier today, but they weren't hideous or cold now.

“Happy Birthday.”

Louis’ eyes fluttered closed on their own accord. Harry’s curls were tickling his ear and the warmth of his breath against his neck was just as distracting as the thought that he had been able to feel Harry’s lips move against his pulse point.

“Thank you.”

Coughing nervously, Harry moved away from Louis to sit down next to him. Louis felt their legs touch as if Harry was charged with power; an actual shock seemed to run through his thigh and up his back, settling uncomfortably in his stomach and making his intestines flutter.

“Can’t let Baby Jesus steal your thunder every year, now can we?”

“You're ridiculous,” Louis breathed, and turned his head towards Harry. The returning smile was blinding.

“I know.” The strange boy looked so pleased with himself that Louis couldn't help but snort. He moved to cover his mouth hastily, trying to conceal what surely looked like a hideous, almost maniacal smile. Fuzzy from the lights and Harry’s body heat, Louis relaxed fairly fast, stretching and yawning, subconsciously leaning closer and closer to Harry by the second. Their silence was comforting and companionable. Louis bathed in it, to be honest. Until he felt his eyelids droop. He wanted to stay awake. He wanted to get to know Harry.

“Tell me about yourself,” he blurted out, and blushed, realizing now just how close they had gotten. How much closer. Their shoulders were bumping against each other every now and again, their legs were slotted together and their hands were just a hair's breadth away from each other.

“Not much to tell.”

“I don't believe you, Curly. You look like someone who has a story.”

“Maybe I don’t. Maybe I'm just cursed that way. Everyone expects me to be this popstar, and I'm just not.” There was that pout again, but Louis could also make out the smallest beginning of a dimple, a nearly invisible dip in his left cheek.

“I never said you were a popstar. You would probably kill yourself by falling off the stage or something if you were. Or, like, get caught up in the electronics, dying a horribly painful death.”

“I did do the fairy lights!” Harry seemed suspiciously petulant about Louis’ teasing. He had to know that he was a safety hazard to himself.

“Let’s look at them again, shall we?” Louis let himself fall on his back with a soft thud. “Come down here!”

Giggling, Harry followed and blinked up at the ceiling. The lanterns were still just as breath-taking and magical as they had been when Louis had first opened his eyes.

Letting images cloud his mind, Louis tried to picture Harry trying to bring them into position. Maybe he let his tongue peek out of his mouth as he concentrated. Maybe his forehead crinkled; Louis didn’t know, but he wanted to find out.

He wanted to know Harry. Intimately.

“How did you do it, then?”

“It’s a secret.” Harry was a little bastard, wasn’t he now? But Louis did love a challenge.

“You either reveal your magic trick or you tell me your story. It’s one or the other.”

Harry’s offended gasp was rather adorable. They were lying face to face now and if Louis would have thought longer about it, he would have realized that he was practically breathing Harry in with every breath he took. He did catch his shampoo—something sweet—and his skin smelled like something Louis depicted as uniquely Harry and everything else that reminded Louis of winter, but he didn’t want to think about sharing the same air as this mysterious boy. His heart had enough trouble staying on point as it was.

“A magician never reveals his tricks! You know that!”

“Do I?”

“Everyone knows that!” Apparently Harry scrunched up his nose when he was (mock) affronted, and apparently Louis took notice of things like that.

“So, your story then.” Distraction, good strategy; Louis mentally gave himself a pat on the back.

Harry blinked slowly; slowly and deliberately. “Harry Styles from Cheshire, nineteen years old. I like to bake, and I have an immensely annoying habit of telling terrible knock-knock jokes. I want to be a lawyer someday, but it’s hard when there’s a basketball game.”

He’s legal. That was the first thing that flashed through Louis’ mind, but thankfully he could swallow that thought down before it was bound infinitely by sound.

“Did you just quote The Cat Empire at me?”

“You know them?” Why did he seem honestly surprised?

“I don't live behind the moon, you know?” If Louis was honest with himself, he had only heard about them give or take three days ago, when Zayn had once again put together a new playlist—for creativity purposes, Louis!—to get through yet another deadline. Louis was so glad that he didn’t have to worry about that. Zayn’s paintings were amazing, but hell, art was brutal.

“Well, you are oblivious to the earthly rules of magic tricks, so how would I know?”

“So we’re being cheeky, then?” If the fucking crater in Harry’s cheek was anything to go by, then Louis would say yes.

“Your turn,” Harry said, succeeding in keeping a straight face long enough to throw Louis into a hysteric laughing fit.

They were giggling, actual, honest to God, teen movie giggles. They were breathless, and they were beautiful. Louis had his hands clasped behind his head, forgetting to cover up his snorts or hide his face, which became increasingly redder, or to push Harry away. He truly forgot and focused solely on the boy who was now slightly hovering above him, a devious glint in his eyes.

“Your life story. I’m waiting, Lou.”

And if Louis shivered at the nickname, if he felt an unfamiliar warmth spread from his chest outwards, then he tried not to think about it.

“Not much to tell, really.”

Maybe Harry had seen something in his eyes, maybe he wasn't as annoying as Louis, maybe Louis had imagined it, but Harry dropped the question. His eyelashes fluttered as he scanned Louis face and his bicep should have strained by now. And then he flopped down next to Louis again.

“I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Louis shifted, his back rubbing uncomfortably against the blanket, until he could take a look at Harry again. He was biting the inside of his cheek, and the spot where Louis had become accustomed to the tell-tale dent of a dimple was sucked in.

“You think?”

His voice was quieter than he had intended. Even though Louis had no idea where these feelings were coming from or what they even meant, he longed for a real answer. Harry turned his head. Louis had to tilt his head up to look Harry in the eye, and he found it incredibly infuriating that this angle did nothing to make Harry look unappealing. Nothing.

“Yeah.”

Louis wanted him to.

……

And so the night went on. They giggled and laughed and stared, and they weirdly didn't care for the outside world. Their bubble was incomplete, but it was whole, and they tried to stay inside of it as long as possible. They were lying on the ground, arm to arm once more, looking up at the glittering ceiling. Their chests were heaving with laughter that hadn’t quite died down yet, suppressed giggles still stuck in their throats. Louis felt as light as the lanterns above them.

Louis noticed that Harry actually talked faster the more tired he got, and he took note of the peach fluff on his upper lip just as he knew that Harry’s sincere eyes must have memorised Louis’ eyelashes by now, and that he had taken a hold of the crinkles around Louis’ eyes, having mastered the arts of drawing them together like a puppet master does their strings, and laughing into Louis’ scrunched up face. They were heavy with sleep and worn down by the weight of contained laughter within their chests, but they didn't want to sleep just yet.

Louis had always driven his mother up the wall by refusing to go to bed on his birthday, because he would have to wait a whole year to have his birthday again. He hated waiting, always had. (So he had been lying earlier, so what?) She had begged him with promises of Christmas the next day, but what good had been promises when he had had the real thing already? He didn't need tomorrow when he had had today. When he got older, she had tried to explain to him that he was cheating, that his birthday would stop at midnight no matter what he did. He had also refused that. The end of a day had always been marked by him going to bed; a clock would not change that now. And so she had stopped reasoning and stayed awake with him until he would fall asleep, sometimes at the break of dawn, sometimes earlier, but always with a smile on his face, because he had gotten what he wanted. An impossibly long day.

So he was trying the same thing now. The night would stop when the sun came up, but the new day would only begin when he said so. When he allowed himself to sleep, the world would turn on, and everything would be back to normal. But he didn’t want that. He wanted to stretch time, like a superhero, like a child, and he wanted it with Harry.

They talked so much until their mouths were dry and their lips were chapped and their throats were raw. Harry was a dreamer, not mindless, nor a fool, but someone Louis wanted to write about, someone who painted the world as magical in real life as Louis did with five scribbled lines. The only difference being that Louis always censored all the bad stuff, never talked about the storm, only described the smell of wet grass and the beauty that came with it. He censored it all because he was aware of the scary parts of the world, and he wanted to keep them away from himself. But Harry included them in everything. He made the good things seem brilliant by taking them into consideration. Louis admired him.

For he got to know a part of Louis that he himself still had to get used to. Not that Louis had been a fraud these past few years, because he honestly hadn’t. He was still the happy-go-lucky Louis everyone knew and liked—but this? This was different, and Louis liked it more.

He told Harry about his first dog and his sisters and how he had broken his hand, twice actually, and he told him all the stuff that he normally didn't bring up because they didn’t seem important. But Harry would never tell Louis to shut up, or to get to the point, because Harry was devouring every piece of information he got from Louis, and if he did so to keep his promise of figuring Louis out, than Louis welcomed that even more.

Harry took so much from Louis; he stored everything of him away in his oversized sweater, its lavender coloured meshes huddled against Harry’s porcelain skin. Louis was so grateful. He wanted to give Harry everything. And Louis didn't feel robbed; no, he felt relieved to be giving. Yet he wasn't completely innocent in this either: he was taking just as much from Harry, even going so far as to take this for granted.

But none of this was normal. One did not get snowed in in London, and one did not get snowed in with someone as nice as Harry. Things like that didn't happen to Louis. So who was he to take this as anything else but phenomenal? Magical?

A fool.

Harry was the dreamer, he was the fool, and he wanted it to be normal, because maybe it could last? How stupid he was; all of these delusions for nothing, and because he himself had set the rule that this had to be extraordinary for it to work. However, as the fool he was, he ignored his pressing thoughts and smiled at Harry again. Smiled and fell back into the conversation like a princess into her feathery bed, soft and familiar.

Not to worry, because Harry didn't disappoint. He spoke of his family, his sister, his mother and his stepdad, a family as dysfunctional and perfect as his own, and he talked about yellowing bricks and cats and first crushes and music. He talked about music as if his life depended on it. Harry Styles breathed music. He admitted to having played in a band at school, enjoying pop music just as much as all his unknown indie bands, and he admitted to singing himself. He avoided Louis’ eyes and traced weird patterns into their blanket when he talked about his dream to actually become the popstar everyone pegged him for, and his fear of failing their expectations. Failing in becoming what they had pictured and consequently failing in all of their ideals. Louis knew exactly how crushing that felt; he knew of fear more than your average twenty two year old, and he said as much.

He had wanted to become an actor; he had wanted to be big. He had feared rejection. He hadn't wanted to become a nurse, he’d wanted to mend things before they broke. He had found his place in London in Danny’s Den, and he was writing about it and everyone else’s blurry lives on a little blue notepad every day.

A sigh of relief escaped Harry, a knot loosening in his chest. He followed his thoughts to the dark secrets everyone kept, and he admitted that he fell in love with his life now. He didn’t know if he would actually enlist for law next semester—“No Louis, that had actually been the truth”—but he knew that he loved his flat and his guitar and his friends and everything didn't seem as bad, when you lived from one day to the next.

The moment they realized that they were wading through dark territory, beasts of the past gnawing at their skin like mosquitoes, they returned to easy banter. And easy it was, because it only took one knock-knock joke and then they were out in the clear again, fairy lights shining like stars above them.

After a while, their tiredness did catch up with them, and Louis finally gave into his wish to cuddle up against Harry and fall asleep. He heard Harry’s heart stutter for a moment underneath his ear and he pressed his palm against his ribs, telling him by touch alone to keep his heart inside. This was for today.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked tentatively, slinging his arm around Louis’ waist. And hadn't Louis been the one who had invaded his personal space by draping himself over his chest without asking?

“Not at all.”

Harry smiled into his hair. His fingers slipped underneath Louis’ t-shirt and pressed against his hip. Not in a demanding gesture, not at all, more like he was reassuring Louis that he also didn't mind in the slightest. Without thinking, Louis pressed a kiss to Harry’s sternum and closed his eyes tightly.

“Good night, Harold.”

“Happy birthday, Lou.”

……

Louis woke up to the sound of banging.

Still groggy, he tried to block it out, and rolled over.

Something was missing. His eyes flew open and he immediately straightened up, his hands scrambling to find something, someone, beside him. But Harry was gone.

The way his chest tightened when the shock set in reminded him of the story Zayn’s dad used to tell, when he had had the suspicion that they had been smoking again. How his dad, Zayn’s granddad, had died of lung cancer and how his chest had had always convulsed painfully, as if his lungs had been trying to save space, trying to get away from the smoke, trying to save the pieces it still had left, trying to protect the heart that lay underneath. He would talk about how he had had to watch his own father grasp his chest with frantic hands, trembling fingers and panic in his eyes, and how he had almost been able to hear his father’s lungs give up and make way for the poison to get to his heart.

Louis felt it all at once, only backwards. His heart seemed to have fought that battle in line first, as his lungs were trying to fill the gaping wound in the middle of his chest. They were clenching together and he couldn't breathe. Tears filled his eyes. Tears of anger, when he realized that he was crying over a boy who had been nothing more than a miracle and of whom he had been sure he would never see again, for he had been too good to be true. But it hurt anyway, and he couldn't think. Couldn't stop thinking!

And the banging hadn't stopped.

Hastily drying his eyes with the hem of his shirt, he stood up and followed the noise. It came from the door. Someone was outside.

Wasn't there too much snow? How had Harry even gotten out? His hand already on the handle, he looked around the shop until his eyes found the window. He froze.

The snow had melted almost completely. There were still a few patches of white, but they seemed flabby and dirty, grey and sad. Most of all, they looked ancient.

The door rattled beneath his hand and he jumped back into reality, pulling the door open, only to be shoved back inside rather abruptly. Stumbling he gripped the counter for support and turned around.

“Zayn?!”

“You fucker, do you know how worried we were?”

Louis didn´t answer, instead choosing to wordlessly stare at his friends who started piling into his shop, glaring at him accusingly. What was he supposed to say?

It was Liam who was the first to notice that Louis wasn't just petulantly withholding an answer, but that something was actually wrong. Sidestepping Zayn and Niall, who were both standing too close for comfort for Louis right now, since he missed the warmth of Harry against himself, Liam approached Louis. At first, Louis couldn't tear his eyes away from Zayn and Niall’s hands that were subconsciously brushing against each other, remembering the electric frizzle between a stranger’s large hand and a lucky boy’s small one.

Finally meeting Liam’s eyes, his own voice reverberated through his skull. “You look like a puppy, Lee-yum. I could never hurt you.” Distracting himself from the redundant thoughts of HarryHarryHarry for a moment, he felt the emptiness of the room crash all around him.

And yes, even though the room was crowded now with three more people all vibrant in their own special way, all breathing and sharing the same air, all taking up space, Louis felt as if the room had actually expanded with every new person that had stepped over the threshold. Now it just seemed empty. The shop suddenly seemed so vast that Louis had the urge to compare the four of them to ants, wandering aimlessly around after they lost their queen. Even if Louis didn't want to live up to it, he was their leader; he was what glued them together. Not because he was the most responsible one—never in a million years would Louis say that about himself—nor was he the kindest, not even the one with the best advice at hand, but he had put them together.

He had befriended Zayn back at home in school, the two of them having been inseparable ever since first grade, and he had introduced him to the cheery Irish lad who would tend to his local bar a few blocks away from their new London flat, every now and again. In the end, he had found Liam by having been forced to call the fire department after his first attempt at cooking.

And now, he was lost, because he had found someone else and they would never know him. He was lost because for one miraculous moment in time, he had found an anchor for his own universe, and now it had just vanished.

“Louis, what happened?” Liam’s voice was deep and soft. Louis wanted to cry.

“There was a snowstorm,” he said in a weak attempt to get his thoughts in order.

“Yeah, we know that,” Niall scoffed, drawing Louis’ attention away from Liam’s concerned face to his bright blue eyes.

“But the phone reception never broke down, so you know, you could have called us and told us if you were okay, because we know that there has been a freaking snow storm. What we did not know, however…”

“Zayn,” Liam reprimanded softly, his eyes never leaving Louis.

“You should have called, Louis.” Somehow, Niall had taken over his boyfriend’s stern tone and was now also glaring at Louis. When he saw Louis flinch away from them though, he immediately softened his voice again, and added: “We really were worried about you. Did you get snowed in, or ... What happened?”

“Yes. I didn't even realize how much there was, until Harry, he…”

“Who’s Harry?”

Louis felt as if he was last night´s pavement, suffocating under a blanket of snow. He backed away again, but apparently that had been the wrong move, because now Zayn and Niall were also starting to come closer. Before he knew it, he was engulfed in a crushing group hug.

“Let’s go home, alright?” Louis didn't know who had suggested it, but he needed to get out of this shop where the blankets were still spread out over the floor, where Harry still lingered behind the fairy lights, and where he himself smelled of a familiar strangeness, his shirt having caught the scent of Harry and never letting it go again.

……

Home was Zayn and Louis’ small apartment, a small flat with no more than three rooms; two bedrooms and a rather spacious living room with an integrated kitchen corner, but it was theirs. And Louis knew that it would soon break apart, what with Niall having taken up almost permanent residency in Zayn's room, and their plans to move in together. Even so, it would always be their first flat in London and it would always be his first flat, the first time he had had to take care of himself. (And what good it had done him, seeing as there was still a black imprint of long extinguished flames behind the fridge, which didn't do a very good job at covering Louis’ failures.)

They were all cuddled up on the couch for now, various body parts trying to get comfortable on a piece of furniture that, at its best times, could hold no more than two people at once. And yet, it worked. There were faces hidden in familiar-smelling shirts. There were hands holding a friend’s ribcage to control their uncontrollable heartbeat and sticky breaths against stiff necks. There were restless feet kicking against shins and elbows poking into bellies, but it was warm and welcoming and Louis never wanted to leave.

They let him keep silent for a long time. For minutes that dragged on like hours, Louis only heard small puffs of air, soft rasps of material shifting beneath weight and underneath heaving chests, and the silence of anticipation, the loudest noise of them all. And only when his ears started ringing did he talk about Harry: about the boy who literally stumbled into his shop, who had hung up fairy lights for him, and who had been big in their small snow globe and big in Louis’ dreams—all of them the same, with Harry’s chest an inspiration for soft waves on the Caribbean sea and flying dragons in unknown countries far away and dipping boats in unruly lakes. He spoke of the boy whom he had talked with for hours about nothing and yet everything Louis had ever wanted to talk about. And because his friends were awesome, they understood that he still considered them his first contacts, but they also knew that there were things that felt monumental to share with someone else.

And so he blabbered on about dark curls and dimples and pouts, about equally whole and broken families. He talked about music and he talked about aims and choices, and he mentioned disappointment. Not the disappointment he had felt this morning, but the crushing type. Because now he still had enough power to tread the water, but that slow creeping disappointment he and Harry had talked about—that meant the steady beating of waves against your back, until your chest would ultimately hit a rock and you'd drown.

He talked until his mouth went dry, and he repeated himself, and he rambled on. He rambled on and on and on. He felt like he was pouring all the light he had soaked up with Harry out through his mouth, making place for a darkness that promised safety in ignorance and oblivion.

“So, where was he this morning?” It was a question Louis had known would follow his monologue, but he dreaded it just the same now, when Zayn’s words took something akin to a physical form and punched him straight in the gut.

“He was gone when I woke up.” Frightened words running into a room too big.

“Do you think he left?”

“Of course he fucking—” Louis jerked up and nearly knocked Niall off the couch, but he was unperturbed, just calmly repeated Zayn’s words.

“Do you think he left you?”

The thing was that Louis didn’t know. Harry was a stranger, after all, who had been forced to spend the night in a small shop in London at Christmas Eve with Louis, so he would have had every right to leave without saying goodbye. He would have had every right. Rationally thinking, Louis knew that he was basically throwing a temper tantrum right now just because he didn’t get what he had envisioned, and he was cranky.

But deep down, where rationality didn't seem to make sense anymore, Louis didn't want to see Harry as a stranger anymore. In that part of himself, Louis had stopped seeing him as one the moment he had, even though rather indirectly, agreed to his ridiculous marriage proposal. He had played along, and with that, he had gotten a free pass to all the crevices of Louis’ heart.

By stumbling his way through Louis’ intestines he had left him broken, and it made Louis feel pathetic because he had known Harry for, what, six hours? Plus the few hours they had slept curled up around each other? That surely did not count as an explanation for a broken heart, much less like one that would account for why he felt like he had been run down by a train multiple times.

“I don't know.” He was pitiful. He hated all of this.

“I don't think he did, Lou.” And of course, Liam would think so. He was the hopeless romantic Louis had always tried to keep off his mind, because life sucked already without idealistic promises of love at first sight and all that jazz. Louis had believed in that once and it hadn’t played out well. But Liam, a series monogamist of the highest class, was about to plant doubt in Louis’ mind again. Doubt that would cloud his brain and make him believe that Harry might come back.

Fuck, Louis feared the pain that could only come from that mind-set.

Stubborn Louis tried to cover his ears with Zayn's arm, but Liam was stronger and made his friend’s attempts futile.

“No, wait. I don't think so, Louis, because from what you've told us, he seems to have enjoyed your company just as much as you enjoyed his. This was not just all in your head.”

“How would you know?” Louis’ voice was muffled against the cushions.

“Because I know a thing or two about you.”

Louis tried to turn on his back with as little movement as possible, until he could stare up at Liam.

“That makes no sense, Liam.”

“It does, actually. You would never open up to someone where you have the feeling that they are not hundred percent with you. You are loud and sometimes a bit crazy, but you’re very guarded, and if Harry has managed to tear down that stupid unnecessary façade of yours, then he didn’t just leave because the snow had finally melted. It makes no sense.”

“He has a point.” Niall sounded so sure of himself, sounded as if he knew exactly how everything would pan out, and that finality made Louis itch all over.

“Does he?” he asked weakly, searching for Niall's hand, squeezing it blindly. When he squeezed back, Louis knew that the answer was yes.

“Zayn?” If Zayn agreed, then Louis would have to face the fact that he was hope’s bitch again.

“I actually think he’s right.”

Louis shook his head, as if blind denial would get him anywhere. His stubbornness would get him killed one day, Liam always said so, but it had worked up until now, so who was he to change his tactics now?

“Louis, what you've just described sounds like a fucking fairy tale. And trust me, you are the last person who would willingly sugarcoat his own life. It must have really happened like that, so why would your boy suddenly drop the act and just leave?”

“He’s not my boy.” And didn't that hurt. Louis pressed his fist into his eye, trying to stop the inevitable tears he felt burning behind his lids. 

“In your story he is.”

“In my story, everything is possible. In my story, Harry is the white knight I want him to be. In my story, Harry stays the night and I wake up to him smiling down on me with his stupid dimpled face. In my story, this conversation doesn't even take place, because I would still be with Harry, so everything you’re saying doesn't mean anything.”

Louis deflated like a balloon, his words being the air rushing out of the rubber, and the deadweight of his friends on top of him suddenly didn't feel comforting anymore. They were pressing the last bit of helium out of him and he hated himself for surrendering to the feeling of immense sadness that came with figuratively lying on the floor.

Pushing them off and himself away, Louis scrambled up and slid to the floor, tucking his hands behind his knees. “Let’s just celebrate Christmas together, alright?” Hiding his face between his legs, he avoided any sad looks he knew his friends were giving him right now.

“But Lou…”

“Save it, Nialler, I’m fine; delusional maybe, but I’m alright.” In the end, he did dare to look up and blink at them. His eyelashes seemed heavier than he remembered. They could probably weigh down his eyelids for so long that he'd forget what the world looked like. He imagined hearing them swish every time he blinked, imagined how tired they must be always trying to protect his eyes, tired of him constantly giving them a hard time. Seriously, now he tied tears like concrete to their ends, his feet and dragged them down with him. It didn't seem fair.

“So, who’s cooking?”

………

And that was that.

No one mentioned Harry for the next two days, and Louis seemed to get better too. He tried to forget that night like he tried to forget the night of his eighteenth birthday, when he vomited all the promises of adulthood in his mother’s front garden. He tried to forget green eyes like that time he picked the vomit flavoured skittle over the one that would have tasted like apples. He tried to blend out everything about dimples and laughs and shared whispers and warm breaths on cold necks.

It worked for a while; it worked long enough to fool his friends, or, more precisely, to get them to shut up. If Louis wasn't so busy trying to keep his impending destruction at bay, he would have noticed the worried glances that his friends shared over dinner, the longing looks they gave him, or the increasing amount of unnecessary hugs and brushes of hands against his back.

But he was busy, so incredibly busy trying to build a wall of humour and oblivion—a wall that resembled a crooked Christmas tree set on fire twice or thrice already, almost burned down to the ground, but standing, crumbling at the edges and pathetic all together, that he just didn’t see it.

He concentrated on the warm glow of their table, their finest cutlery on display, the biggest candles obscuring the view of their dinner. He sought comfort in stupid little Christmas gifts: a baseball cap for Liam, an old copy of Wuthering Heights for Zayn, and a ticket to a Michael Bublè concert for Niall. He laughed with his arms full of presents for himself: a CD, a new notebook, and a rather expensive pen, one he had been lusting after for months now.

He enjoyed himself. He really did.

Louis loved Christmas, always had, and a stranger with curls and a universe of gold behind green eyes would not take that away from him.

So he sipped champagne and made fun of Niall for making a mess out of himself with the dessert, and he took a break from all the glory on the balcony with Zayn, smoking their one solitary cigarette, and he tussled with Liam over the DVD player, wanting to watch Love Actually, but instead losing to Liam’s brawl and agreeing on The Avengers with a ridiculous pout.

“You do realize that it’s Christmas, right?” he teased, and crossed his ankles on the coffee table. If Liam wanted to watch his movie, he had to set up the DVD player. His own fault, really.

“Have you quite finished?”

“You can't use my own words against me, Liam!” Now crossing his arms too, Louis tried to stare Liam down, deliberately ignoring the fact that just by him lounging on the couch, his chances of succeeding had diminished immensely.

“I can and I will.” Triumphantly, Liam pressed play.

“Yes, we're watching The Avengers!” Niall had then proceeded to squeal as he stepped into the living room, Zayn following closely on his trail. Louis took pride in the fact that Zayn at least had the decency to look ashamed. Honestly, disappearing for an uncalled for makeout session right after dinner and bailing on Louis was unacceptable. He knew that Louis always lost in a fight against Liam.

“Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Oh cheer up, will you, Lou,” he grinned, and flopped down all over Louis, who groaned dramatically when Niall’s elbow knocked into his stomach.

“I will not. And Zayn, you're banned from the couch. I will not tolerate kissing noises during an action film.”

“Bro, what the—”

“Chair, now!”

Mumbling nonsense about sexual frustration taken out on the wrong person, Zayn dropped into the messy armchair next to Louis and folded himself in half, his feet tucked neatly under the armrest and his chin resting atop his bony knees.

“Liam, how long is this going to take you exactly?” Louis asked, trying to wiggle his thighs underneath the weight of Niall's head, hoping to annoy the Irish lad enough for him to move over.

“Done.” The screen went from black to the flashes of generations of stories, pictures of comics and heroes, within seconds.

So, Louis wasn't miserable per say. He was just even more tired at the end of each day than normally because being happy and trying to keep it that way, to keep memories at bay; to drown them out with their worst enemy, themselves, was exhausting. But he managed.

He didn't realize until midnight of the 26th that he had not picked up his notebook since that time in the shop. He had filled his head with so much nonsense, trying so hard to recreate some kind of white noise, that he had suffocated every last bit of imagination in the process. Tossing and turning in his bed, the sheets getting tangled to the point of no recognition of their actual purpose, Louis tried to convince himself that it didn’t mean anything.

Really, how often had his little pad lain untouched for months and he hadn't made a big deal out of it? Too often to keep count, apparently. So why was this bothering him so much now?

Sighing, he turned on his back and stared at his ceiling.

It was because he hadn't even thought about it. He hadn't even opened the pad to flicker through his pages of ink, left to dry out cruelly and alone, bearing only a home for the meaning behind their words but not for themselves. He hadn't even thought of a new story to put down, not one gleam of creativity, and he felt oddly empty.

Defeated, he turned his head to the nightstand and stared at the dark elevation on it, that small square book that had been gathering dust for the past two days. Not even now, not even when his brain was scratching at his wall and remembering Harry. The smell of him, the image of him standing before him, that piercing thought of crashing stones and the relief to remember Harry hiding behind the other side of the counter just as much as Louis was. Not even then did he come up with words that he wanted to exist on paper, paper that had words spilled out all over it already.

Maybe it was fear holding him back. Fear of losing himself in a world that would exist only in forests long dead, flattened and straightened out with too many unsolved mysteries resting between dead trees, coming to life only with drops of black blood dripped and scratched onto them.

Maybe it was something else, but the alternative was what really frightened Louis. Because what if—and he pretended to ignore the oncoming scenarios his brain bombarded him with—what if he just didn't know what to write about anymore?

What if now that he had lived through what his poems told daily, even if it had been only for a day, he couldn't dream anymore?

And without dreams, there were no sparks and no words to form magic with. Louis knew that pulling his pillow over his head would not silence the voices in his head, but he tried, because what if Harry had been his magic?

He couldn’t be co-dependent on a stranger for the rest of his life. Life wasn't supposed to work like that.

Pushing his pillow off his face, Louis breathed in the soft scent of his comforter, his face smashed into the cotton like a fish’s on dry land. He would not let one guy, one admittedly perfect guy, ruin his life. He would get his shit together and he would write something tomorrow. It didn’t have to be more than three words, maybe he would manage a haiku, but he would write something and he would write Harry Styles out of his mind.

Of course, he hadn't quite figured out how to do that just yet, seeing as Harry Styles seemed to have currently taken up residency in his mind as something more akin to a guard or a dam, keeping everything inside and making evacuation impossible.

So, okay, fine, he still had to form a plan that didn't involve his thoughts running around in his head, throwing themselves against his skull in sheer panic and maybe he had to secure the emergency exists (exit two needed the most repairing; his fingers were shattered from the latest disaster), but he was getting there.

Tomorrow was a whole new day. Routine began to seep through every crack and every crevice, starting with him going back to work, back to the epicentre of all evil in Louis’ opinion, back to Danny’s Den. And then, he would just see what would happen next.

Anything could happen. Maybe he'd meet new people, other Harrys. Beautiful people were everywhere, so why was he so hung up over one bumbling Cheshire kid?

Deciding to bury himself underneath his pillow again, Louis groaned into the fabric and contemplated asking Zayn to come cuddle with him. In the end, he decided against it. He chose to fall asleep on his own once more, because one time and it didn't happen, right? And if he told himself that every night, who was there to judge? To keep count? No one, so he might as well lie. Plus, wasn't a day worth a lifetime, so a new chance to start over and to fail every night? Who said that you had to keep counting?

Once again, Louis couldn’t think of a person, so he grumpily closed his eyes and burrowed his nose in the crook of his elbow, stretching out on his stomach and more or less forcing himself to sleep.

……..

Slap. Groan. Toss. Turn. Repeat.

Louis hated mornings.

Louis hated the burn behind his eyes when the sun shone directly into them.

Louis hated the heaviness of his body, that so clearly told him that he should stay in whatever position he found himself in that morning.

Basically, he hated the prospect of each new day if he had the choice of staying in bed all day, which just seemed… better. And it was a choice; that was what bugged him the most. If he were brave enough, he could stay in bed all day. If only he were. But in fact, he fought into an upright position and shuffled into the kitchen to make his tea. He did it every morning apart from Sundays. On Sundays he wasn't brave enough to get up.

“Morning, Zayn,” he yawned as he strolled passed his flatmate, whose eyes hadn't even considered opening yet.

“I hate Niall.”

“That’s a sudden change in attitude,” Louis remarked, and poured his tea, reaching around Zayn, who had stopped in the middle of their little kitchen corner. Louis’ very own Bradford zombie.

“He wants to meet in an hour.” Zayn’s words seemed slow, like a particularly glorious drag of a cigarette late at night.

Nudging his elbow against Zayn’s ribs to get him to move at least an inch, just enough for Louis to open the fridge to get the milk for his tea, Louis asked what the problem was. Smirking, he tried to hide his face behind the cupboard door, knowing that even though he had a slight distaste of mornings, Zayn was ready to commit mass murder. Especially when he had to speak.

“It’s too early,” he groaned. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis saw Zayn actually drop to the ground, as if his body was so desperate to get back into the land of the dead and dreaming that it thought the floor the most comfortable.

 

“The early bird gets the worm, Zayn, so buckle up.”

He stepped over his flatmate rather ungracefully and scuttled back into his room to get ready, leaving Zayn alone in his run-of-the-mill existential crisis. To sleep or not to sleep. And honestly, that lucky bastard had actual days off. Christmas holidays lasted two weeks for art students, apparently. He had no right to complain in the presence of hard working fellows like Louis.

People like Louis, who had to fight through public transport at arse o'clock in the morning, only to stand behind a dirty counter for eight hours hoping to get more than seven customers. He prayed to Baby Jesus, please at least one wouldn’t be dull and boring or a hipster.

Yes, Louis had developed a certain kind of hatred towards hipsters, and if he asked his subconscious, it might have had something to do with one perfect specimen of hipster-y antics. But he did not ask for his subconscious’s opinion, so it could go screw itself.

The shower was cold and unsatisfying, but Louis managed not to punch his reflection right in the face when he looked into the mirror and saw his hopeless fringe and the dark circles underneath his eyes. Apparently his body had decided to match his mood today, great. Sometimes he wondered how people like Harry woke up. Did their hair just fluff up on its own and fall gracefully over their eyebrows, curling just right around their ears, or did sleep have such a fragile grip on them that they made it out of bed in time to style themselves?

Louis seriously wanted to know. And not just because then he would have an excuse to imagine Harry in the mornings, or him with a concentrated pout before the mirror, or Harry in general. It wasn’t that. Scout’s promise.

Slipping into a pair of washed-out jeans and his sweater from the day before, he grabbed his keys and wallet and strolled back into the living room.

“Zayn? Do we have some leftovers from yesterday?”

Louis could take care of himself. He would pack his own lunch and follow Liam’s advice of living a healthier and better life. Sidestepping the counter that separated the living room area from the actual kitchen corner, Louis found Zayn in the same position as before, with the slight alteration that his roommate seemed to have fallen back asleep again.

And, because Louis was a brat, he kicked him in the side. Gently, of course.

“Motherfucker! What… What are you doing?”

Okay, so maybe he’d just dozed off, and maybe Louis had put more force behind it than he'd thought. It happened to the best of us.

“Don’t you have a date, tiger?” he asked innocently, and decided that very same moment that lunch was overrated.

“Fuck, what time is it?” Zayn’s groan spoke of more than just the aversion of having to get up. It spoke of a chronic anger towards the world before noon.

However, before Louis could provide Zayn with a witty comeback, the doorbell rang. Exchanging a curious look with Zayn, Louis put his wallet and keys on the counter and moved towards the door.

Before his hand so much as touched the handle, though, the door swung open and a blonde ball of energy rushed passed him.

“Niall?!”

“Is he awake yet?” was all a stunned Louis got in return as he closed the door as softly as possible, trying not to disturb the scene in front of him.

“How did you even get in?” he asked in lieu of replying to Niall’s frantic question. But the intruder, and yes he was one in Louis’ eyes, just waved him off and closed in on Zayn, who, Louis duly noted, still hadn't gotten off the floor.

“Horan!” he squeaked, and hoped to buy Zayn a few more minutes before he had to face whatever he was apparently hiding from right now. “This is my flat and you will report back to me this instant. Who gave you a key?”

“Zayn did.” He did what? Okay, that was it! Louis was so going to blow his cover.

“He’s behind the counter,” he said conspiratorially, and added in a louder tone, intended especially for his roommate’s loving ears: “I pay half of the rent too, you know? I should get a say in this matter.”

Although Zayn clearly avoided dwelling on Louis' comment, the scene that started to unfold before Louis was a good enough replacement for the tiny release of energy Louis would have gotten out of a bit of morning bickering. In all honesty, he had no real reason to not want Niall to be a part of their little tragic sitcom, or to become a permanent fix point in these three holy rooms.

Liam had already done the same thing, infiltrating all their lives with his neat habits and hero complexes, and he had gotten a key from Louis without either one of them sharing a bed or saliva with each other on a daily basis. So, Louis was cool with it. Especially after having been first eyewitness to the following:

“You were going to be late, weren't you?”

“Niall, no. Of course I wasn’t.”

“Then what time is it?”

Finally, Zayn’s head re-emerged from behind the counter, and Louis snorted at the bird’s nest that rested upon it. If Louis were an artist, he would have loved to contrast Niall and Zayn with caramel and chocolate (different nude tones, a shit ton of cream and gold), but he wasn't. He was a writer and not a total creep, so he kept his thoughts about plain and simple aesthetics to himself.

“You don't know, do you?”

Wow, he sounded way too fond for someone who knew that he would have been stood up. Again, probably. Louis admired Niall for his patience sometimes. Zayn’s tardiness had never bothered Louis in the slightest, but that stemmed from his own incapability to arrive on time, so even though the two of them moving in together had led to some of the most chaotic times in the history of ever, they complemented each other quite well.

Niall seemed to just have a soft spot for all of Zayn’s habits, be they good, bad, or absolutely ridiculous. Louis wanted that, too. He wanted the comfort of out of space idiocy and the thrill of domestic randomness, to make a home in a person, but the universe had apparently turned his back on him just like every cute boy in a five mile radius.

And if random snippets of Harry infiltrated his brain, then so be it. A sudden resignation had come over him, and if that boy would not get out of his head, then Louis guessed he had to offer him a bedroom, a part time job and the necessary goods to survive inside the labyrinth of Louis’ brain. He could open up a day-care for all the ghosts he could never leave behind, for all the souls that haunted him with all the promises of what could have been and what never should be. He’d be a pretty ace babysitter.

Lost in his own mind, Louis missed a part of the ongoing discussion in front of him, but his ears perked up again when he heard the threatening undertone in Zayn's voice.

“You cannot just assume that I am late for something and show up before our arranged date.”

“I can if you don't answer your stupid mobile. My family has decided to give me a surprise visit, Christmas spirit and all that. I have to cancel on you, you fucker.”

It was like watching an overly dramatic sword fight. Zayn took a step back, a blow to his sternum, blood rushing from his head to the fresh wound; Louis imagined some kind of dramatic and medieval music in the background, and tried not to laugh at the picture of Zayn in chainmail. The opponent mirrored his counterpart’s move and stepped into his space again, and oh no, what was he doing?

Niall's hand reached out to Zayn's chest and came to rest on his ribs; a miracle was about to happen. Two soldiers merging into one; calm and storm in one touch. Louis stood by it, his day-care would be awesome. Story time would always be the most anticipated event of the day.

“But, they don't—” Zayn's voice broke a little towards the end, and Niall nodded. And then Louis remembered.

Niall’s parents didn’t know. Niall had never specifically stated that he was a) gay, or b) actually in a happy and healthy relationship with a man. Both of which Louis had never seen as a problem, because concerning point a) Louis was quite certain that Niall was actually only Zayn-sexual, and b) he knew and he saw and he witnessed them together.

But he wasn't an idiot (against common belief), and he knew that this was a big deal for them right now.

And so he left, slipped out of the door, and let them have their moment. He would ask for a detailed description of unfolding events later, but this? This was for them, two separate entities holding on for one more minute before they either crashed and burned or pulled and turned forevermore.

……….

The little pieces of snow left on the ground scrunched beneath Louis’ feet as if to mock him. His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets and his nose buried deep in his scarf; he trudged from the metro to Danny’s Den and tried to keep his head down and with it all aspiration to spot a certain someone in the hustle and bustle that was London at this time of the day. It was childish, anyway. So was staring at the ground, but Louis would have none of that.

His fingers were clammy when he pulled out the rusty keys to the shop. Once he stepped inside, it didn’t feel a lot different. The cold air had seeped through the paper thin walls and everything smelled oddly old and rotten.

He only hoped that they didn’t have any serious trouble with any of their stocked goods, because Danny didn’t take their insurance papers that seriously and if the worst case scenario should come to life, well, then they were truly and utterly fucked.

Trying to rid his mind of horror scenarios , Louis trotted to the back room.

After he had gotten rid of his jacket and scarf and had returned to the counter, he couldn't help but stare at the empty space of nothing in front of him; a dark wall with three small windows on the left, six shelves on the right, and in the middle, right in front of him, nothing. Liam had taken care of all the blankets and the fairy lights, stuffing them into the most unappealing cardboard box in the background.

So basically, somewhere where Danny would still find them, but Louis would never even look.

He loved Liam so much for that, he did, but he felt the empty space in front of him as if the earth had opened itself up into an abyss dividing his corner shop into two uneven halves with the intent of making Louis realize that it could never go back to normal again. And he hated it.

This was his shop (fine, yeah, Danny’s shop, but semantics…) and he would damn well reconquer it. He had worked here for almost two years now, and he would not give this shithole up without a fight. Maybe he had let Harry infiltrate his forte too easily, but he was sure of himself. He could eliminate the traitorous intruder by redefining his grounds, his borders, what belonged to him.

Making sure that there were no possible customers in sight, and who was he kidding, there rarely were, he walked right into the abyss and stood still. With one foot on either side of the crack, standing proudly on two continents at the same time and tried to control his frantic breathing, it didn't feel as good as he had hoped it would.

This was his and his alone; he should feel like a king of worlds.

So why didn't he?

Defeated, Louis folded in on himself and sat down, cross legged and uncomfortable. His eyes were unfocused and his mind was trotting idly around in his skull, having memorized how many steps it took from one end to another with closed eyes.

With his motivation to win back his world slowly draining out of him like oil leaking out of a wrecked car, he at first didn't pay attention to the small patch of colour that reflected the tired rays of sunlight into his line of vision. But soon the glimmer in the corner of his eyes got annoying and after three, four, five blinks, he turned his head to the doorframe and refocused his eyes. He was met with brown eyes, a crooked and red nose, and a blue pointy hat to top it all off.

It was Merlin—the glass figurine Harry had fallen in love with on sight. It was probably the most hideous thing in the entire shop, corny and useless and yet brand new property of Harry Styles. And yes, Louis was well aware of the fact that Harry had never actually bought anything. They never exchanged goods with money, and most obviously he had not taken the glass figurine back home, but Harry had claimed him, and for Louis that was enough.

Enough to feel mocked by the universe, laughed at by their entire stock of glass elves on shelf three, and not taken seriously by the monsters underneath his bed he prayed to.

What was Merlin doing here? Why hadn't Harry put the figurine back on the shelf, or better yet, why hadn't he taken it with him? Not that Louis pegged Harry as a thief, far from it, but he wished he had lived up to Louis’ expectation of clumsiness to take stuff with him by accident.

He hadn’t.

Slowly rising to his feet, Louis scuffled to the door and picked Merlin up. He remembered how careful Harry had been, how gentle he had held it and tightened his already brute grip. But he was not Harry, and Merlin was not adorable. Louis decided to put Merlin—and oh god, if he had to think that name one more time then he would smash something (preferably Merlin himself)—back on the shelf, but his feet wouldn't cooperate.

Instead, he found himself standing behind the counter once more, elbows propped up on the surface to support his head with his hands as he stared down at Merlin and waited.

For what, he didn't know, and Merlin wasn't kind enough to give him answers; in the end, he waited for time to pass.

The customers that paid him a visit were boring, and even though he had known from the start that hoping for something like Harry to happen again — did that make him sound like a tornado? An instance of utter destruction and beauty talked to death in the media? — was preposterous, having that last proverbial rug swept out from under him hurt.

Maybe even more than the harsh white of his notepad open in front of him and empty, just like it had been the past five minutes, and the five minutes before that. What good was Merlin to him now if he couldn't even set fire to this ratty old pad? He was just standing there, gloomily staring down at Louis’ misery. And maybe Louis was imagining it, he really wouldn't put it past himself to start hallucinating now too, but he could have sworn that the glass figurine had a sad tilt to his mouth, one that hadn't been there before.

In Louis’ opinion, he had never really looked particularly happy, but the defeated tilt of his cartoon pink lips was new. Louis couldn't blame him; the universe did suck. Especially when it came down to his life, so he couldn’t expect Merlin to be cheerful for him, but he wanted him to be, wanted him to be white hope.

Fine, he admitted it: he might have lost his mind, but it was nothing a New Year’s resolution wouldn’t fix. He would just promise to do better next year and let himself have this one week of embarrassingly hopeless insanity.

Insanity that jingled like coins in a piggy bank, always there, palpable but inexplicably out of reach. Louis had even formed a kind of loving relationship with his lapse of judgement, not wanting to shatter his porcelain walls, fearing the nothingness of normalcy in his skull like one would an empty wallet.

Suddenly, there was another kind of jingle in the room, and Louis’ head snapped up. He should check for whiplash tomorrow.

Not today though. No, today, fate had something else planned.

Something that brought the air into motion and that brought Louis’ world to the ground. Something that was sheepishly biting his bottom lip, a lip Louis had become way too familiar with in the short amount of time he had been granted the privilege to stare at it. Something that had his hands tucked bashfully into his back pockets, back pockets that were once again sewn into jeans way too tight to allow normal blood circulation.

Something that was looking straight at Louis, and something that made Louis’ insides churn.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

God, what was happening? Louis had to do something. Harry was in his shop. Right now. Harry fucking Styles was back in his shop again right now, in Louis’ proximity and his space, his sight and mind and everywhere at once, and Louis had said hey.

It was fair to say that it was not going well so far.

“What… What are you doing here?” Sometimes Louis wished he were a cartoon character, just to smash his head in with an oversized hammer, just once, and hope for his brain to decide to take it as a wakeup call to come back home from its permanent vacation on the Island of Stupid.

Harry’s lack of a response made Louis think that he felt the same.

“I mean, what…” No, he had to start differently. “How did you get here?” And, fuck, that was even worse.

“I walked,” Harry chuckled, and Louis had never wanted the ground to swallow him up more than now. Where had that abyss gone? It had been here just two hours ago, so where was it? Where was it when he needed it, dammit?

“You walked.”

“That I did, yes.”

“But, it’s cold outside.”

There were two things Louis hated more than small talk: one, his geography teacher from tenth grade who had told him that he would never amount to anything, ultimately inviting every monster of insecurity to a big party that Louis wasn't invited to, but had to endure anyway with black shadows of doubt dancing on his attic floor and raining on his parade; and then two, soggy muesli.

Small talk was something Louis just wasn't good at. He hated that endless in-between of having to care just enough to nod and sigh, but never enough to get to know someone. But he knew Harry.

He knew him and he still couldn’t ask the real questions. Couldn’t be the person that had fallen asleep on Harry, the person that Harry had used as his personal confessional, the person that hadn't stopped thinking about Harry for the past two and a half days.

“I’m… I’m an idiot, Lou.” Had Harry’s voice gotten even deeper, or was the air around them just generally thicker?

“Walking around in that when it’s just above freezing outside; yes, I have to agree. You're an idiot.”

Harry had swapped his black peacock coat for just a hoodie, its hood having left his curls in an endearing (because who was Louis kidding, everything about him was just that) disarray, with a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

“I was in a hurry.” He certainly didn't seem to be in one right now, not with his feet slowly dragging over Louis’ dirty linoleum floor, coming closer to Louis step by step. Beat by beat Louis’ heart picked up its speed.

Shuddering in a breath, Louis blinked deliberately slow, a harmful part of his mind wanting Harry to have disappeared when he opened his eyes again.

Maybe it was just his internal life support kicking in, what with his chest feeling awfully tight, since that door had fallen shut as if the door had suddenly compressed all the air in the room and oxygen was swiftly becoming a rarity.

“I wanted to see you again.”

Louis’ heart was beating like a freight train, and if this kept happening, then he would really have to see a doctor.

“You did?”

And Harry shook his head; not in negotiation, but as if he was just angry with himself. He looked as if he had imagined this scene very differently in his head and was trying to remember what the next step was. Apparently, it took him even closer to the counter.

Finally Louis could see the little sunflowers in Harry’s eyes again. His eyelids were puffy, sleeplessness inked permanently into the skin under his eyes and worry lines scratched over his forehead.

Suddenly, his eyes widened, and Louis followed his line of sight and found Harry looking at Merlin. If the small hiccupping giggle was anything to go by, Harry was more than happy to see his old companion, although Louis couldn't understand why. Harry had left him here after all, so he couldn't have been that emotionally attached to it.

“So you found him, then?”

And wait, what? “Found him?”

The younger boy’s cheeks pushed up against tired eyes and his teeth flashed brightly in Louis’ muted brain. He was brilliant.

“Yeah, uhm, I left him here for you. I had to hurry that morning, you know? And I didn’t want you to think that I had just left like that, so, like... I left Merlin here to kind of tell you that.”

“He’s a glass figurine, Harry. He can't talk.” Louis should shut up, he was well aware of that, but he did not want to admit that he had just found Merlin today and had been cursing Harry nonstop since those fateful knocks on his shop door that woke him up on the morning of the 25th.

“He’s the most powerful sorcerer to have ever lived, of course he can talk.” The crater in Harry’s cheek was big enough for Louis to consider burying himself in it. If the ground wouldn't offer him shelter, then Harry’s dimple had to do.

“Yeah, well, he never said anything to me about you.”

“Because you didn't believe that he would, Louis.”

And alright, he had a point. Louis had had all the evidence, but instead of coming to the conclusion that Harry might have left Merlin here on purpose, he had made up his mind that Harry had just not been who Louis had thought he was. He had clouded his mind with doubt and had never once let the thought of a happy ending in. Hope, of course, had been there (who didn't have at least that tiny little spark of hope in their veins), but it had never really made it into the part of Louis’ mind where it could have taken corporate form, or where he could have come to logical assumptions.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” Louis mumbled.

He lifted his hand to his mouth and bit down on the pad of his thumb, a bad habit that Liam always scolded him for. Now that he thought about it though, Liam should really lay off his fatherly protectionism. He wasn’t Louis’ minder, and if Louis wanted to nibble on his finger like a fucking five year old, then—

“Let me take you out.”

Louis froze, his thumb suspended in mid-air, his jaw slightly agape and his eyes blown wide.

“What?”

“I want to know you.” Harry talked softly and quietly, almost secretively, and Louis continued to let his stupidity run his actions.

“You do know me.” And wasn't that clichéd, Louis thought sarcastically, and forced his hand back down to the counter. Splaying his fingers wide, he stared up at Harry.

“I want to know you over dinner or breakfast or brunch, or maybe you're more a lunch kind of guy. I want to know you under the sun, during every grind and when reality is closer than those darn fairy lights. I want to know you under the pressure of a first date, the suspense of a second, and the tension of a third. I want you, Louis.”

So, Harry might be the one to go to with clichéd answers, because this was not what Louis had been expecting, not at all. However, Harry had been. The way his voice had not wavered once and the gleam in his eyes and his ramrock stance made Louis imagine Harry revising this exact same speech.

It didn’t diminish its effect, by the way. It somehow made the gesture even greater, the moment even grander, and Harry even more worth holding onto. And then, Louis remembered something.

“You said you were in a hurry?”

They were whispering again. Somehow, Louis found comfort in the hushed exchange of words, standing in such stark contrast to his usual self that he could convince himself that he was more than what people talked about after a night out with friends and a lot of inebriated gibberish.

Harry smiled, bashfully and without the dimple, but enough to reduce his eyes to slits and to crinkle the top of his nose.

Enough for Louis.

“I did, yes. I thought I'd missed you. I didn’t know if you had a shift today.”

Harry shuffled his feet on the floor. Seizing him up and down, Louis only now realised that Harry stood pigeon toed. That night, he hadn’t had the chance to notice things like that about him, stemming from them sitting down most of the night. And Harry had a point; he wanted to meet Harry under normal circumstances and he wanted to know the Harry that had lead him into his shop to begin with. The Harry his friends got to see, the Harry that did plan to buy small gifts for party guests, and the Harry that would come barging into his shop, talking to Louis like he cared about him.

“Yes.” It was more of a breath, more hazardous and unintentionally beautiful, but the words did make it to Harry’s ears. His head tipped to the side, owlishly looking at Louis.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, take me out.”

“Simple, but effective.”

Harry laughed, sounding just as breathless as Louis. They both felt the importance of this moment, this impact in time that would determine the rest of their lives, be it for five minutes or more. It was a moment of impact, and it chose well, when it crashed down on Harry and Louis.

…….

“You shouldn't wear your ripped jeans to a first date.”

“You shouldn't even be here.”

Liam grinned, spreading his arms and legs like a starfish on Louis’ bed. He was being an obnoxious little brat, in Louis’ opinion, but what did his opinion matter, right? Apparently, even his choice of clothing was wrong.

He needed Zayn here. Zayn would tell him exactly what to wear, probably even lending him some clothes of his own, and then bugger off. But Zayn was away with Niall and his family, having left only a cryptic message yesterday saying that they would be back in two days tops. God only knew what was going on with them—so he had had to call Liam for help, and this was his reward.

“What’s wrong with those jeans?” he asked, defeated, and shimmied out of them.

Nudeness had never been a problem with any of his friends, not really. Liam might have been forced to accept the fact that it was inevitable when it came to the whirlwind of Louis’ life to avoid some skin, starting right on their first meeting when Louis had opened the door for the fire department in nothing but his boxers, the rest of his clothes having caught fire in the process of making his last omelette.

“Don’t know.” Exasperated, Louis glared at Liam through the mirror. With his back still turned to his friend, he walked into his adjoining bathroom and busied himself with his toothbrush.

Although he had taken Harry’s speech as confirmation that there would probably not be a kiss on their first date, one couldn't be too sure. Plus, it was basic hygiene, and even though his family and friends doubted his abilities to stay neat and tidy—there was no law against turning your underwear inside out to wear them again, alright? When he was out of clean underwear, he had taken it upon himself to be creative. No one should judge him for that—he actually did care about his body and how he was perceived by his environment.

He didn't smell, was what he was trying to say.

“You're not helping.” Spit was dribbling down his chin as he leaned against the doorframe to stare down on Liam, who looked way too smug for someone who knew that Louis could destroy him if he wanted to. If he really, really wanted to.

“Where are you two going anyway?” Liam asked innocently, pushing himself up until he was leaning against the headboard.

“Don’t know.” Louis held his hand under his chin, trying to catch the toothpaste escaping his mouth. Liam raised his eyebrows.

Stomping back into the bathroom and spitting into the sink, Louis glared at his reflection.

“He didn’t say, alright?!”

“So you have no idea?”

“That’s what I just said, didn't I?” Louis had no time for this. He had to be ready in less than an hour, and he hadn't even started on his hair. This was a disaster. Harry had wanted the pressure of a first date, and he sure was getting that, but he surely wouldn't be fine with Louis dying of a cardiac arrest before he even got to the restaurant.

Oh God, what if they didn't go to a restaurant? Trying to regulate his breathing, Louis walked back into his room and, with the hint of a bad conscience, pushed Liam off the bed.

“You need to leave. I’m having an existential crisis.”

But Liam was having none of it. He was bent at the waist, convulsing with laughter and actually sobbing from the laughs fighting themselves out of his chest.

“Liam!” Louis scolded, and promptly tackled him. “This is no laughing matter!”

In a failed attempt to wiggle out of Louis’ chokehold, Liam tried to grab his friend’s hands. “Actually, it’s hilarious, but whatever you say, man.”

Louis really didn't appreciate his attitude. “Your friend is suffering, and you're making fun of him. Unbelievable.” Pouting, he shifted around on Liam until he had him immobilized by sitting on his thighs.

Their relationship had long exceeded the point where this position could have been interpreted as sexual in any way. Liam and him had never even gotten to the point where a sexual relationship had even been an option, as opposed to how it had gone with Zayn, for example. One sloppy kiss while they’d been high had settled that soon enough, though. With Liam, it had more of a childish touch to it, a game of push and pull and the thrilling question of who would surrender first.

“You really like him, don't you?”

Louis would never cease to be amazed by Liam’s ability to change his mood. His tone was honest and firm, the complete opposite to his hiccupping sobs of his just plain evil mocking a mere two minutes ago.

Louis nodded, facepalming into his comforter.

“It’s going to go just fine, Lou,” Liam reassured him. He ruffled his hair, which, right, he still had to style. He was bloody late, dammit!

“Help me up, Liam. I need to get ready.”

“If you'd move your arse, maybe I would.”

In vain, Louis tried to swat away Liam’s hands that slapped his thighs, trying to throw him off. Grumbling into his blanket, he slid onto the floor, landing uncomfortably on his back. He was sure that he felt a shoe pressing into his spine.

“Come on now, Louis, cheer up. Your date will be just fine.” Liam was now towering over him, seeing as he apparently still had the energy to stand up. Louis narrowed his eyes at Liam’s hands on his hips. He looked like his mum, and the smug, Mr. Know-it-all grin on his face really didn't help in that matter.

Or, to be completely honest, he looked like he came straight out of a horror movie. The sun was in his back and his face was covered in shadows, making it impossible for Louis to properly see his features.

“You think?” he whimpered, and made grabby hands towards Liam.

“Yeah, I do.” Hauling Louis onto his feet, Liam patted Louis’ head and nodded. “Just get ready.”

And yeah, with a glance on his nightstand clock, maybe he should.

In the end, his hair was uselessly tucked into a beanie, and while his sweater was big and comfy it was in no way date material, with its Brooklyn Circus logo and worn out sleeves. His jeans were one of his better pairs, sitting just right around his bum (which was great), but they exposed his ankles and the stupid tattoo he had gotten back in Doncaster of a small triangle to remind himself who he was, regardless of what his judge-y community might think.

All in all, he felt like a little kid. He didn’t like it one bit, but time had run out and Harry would be here to pick him up any minute now.

Honestly, he felt as if he had cheated on himself, cheated on a whole day. It was nearing six pm on a Saturday night and he had not managed to make himself look presentable, instead had sat around brooding over Harry.

And there was the tell-tale sound of their broken bell. Turning away from his mirror, he scampered towards the door and pressed the intercom.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, hiii. Should I come up?” His voice sounded tinny and wobbly through the speakers, and Louis almost cringed. It almost didn’t sound like Harry at all.

“No, no it’s fine, I’ll come down in a minute.” He didn’t know why he had said that; maybe Harry had wanted to come upstairs, but Louis couldn’t shake the feeling that his flat should stay untouched for now. He had almost lost Danny’s Den to Harry’s claiming presence, he couldn't afford to lose his last safe haven. Which, the longer he thought about it, was actually idiotic because that thought alone implied that this date would go terribly wrong.

Who was he to predict the future? He had been wrong about Harry’s absence on the morning of the 25th too, so maybe he should just lock his thoughts away in a small dirty box and throw them overboard, let the waves of common sense crash over the dead weight of neurotic paranoia.

Shaking his head, he grabbed his coat and scarf and slammed the door shut behind him.

Harry was wonderful, as Louis should have expected if he weren't inherently suspicious of kindness.

“You look—” Louis knew how Harry looked, incredible and really pretty, but he couldn't very well say that, now could he? “Like winter.”

Harry’s face actually split wide open with his smile, and his eyes became crescents that hid behind the cloud of his breath. “Thank you. You look quite cuddled in, yourself.”

And how was Louis supposed to explain to him that he didn’t mean that Harry looked cuddled in, but like the actual season, like winter itself and like hot creamy chocolate and hugs and ice and red ribbons ripped from gift shelves?

By blushing furiously, apparently, and by toying with the strands of his scarf, invested way too much in the stray fuzz around them.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Without taking real notice of it, Louis had drifted closer to Harry and now their shoulders bumped into each other from time to time, fully in tact with their languid steps and their breaths and keeping Louis’ heartrate at a relatively even pace. “You don't have anything planned?” he asked, surprised, and turned his head. He had assumed what with how Harry had taken a very decisive turn right after his street had ended that he knew where they were going, that he was heading somewhere. Frankly, he had counted on that.

“Not really, no,” Harry shrugged, stumbling into Louis. Giggling into his neck, he nudged him into the next street, making Louis feel dizzier than the time last year when he got on a roller coaster while highly intoxicated. It felt better.

“Don't be daft, Harry. You are obviously going somewhere.”

“So are you, Lewis.”

And even though it took some time until Louis got what Harry was trying to pull, the worst pun in the world it seemed, he was far more concerned about the way his feet slipped on a patch of slick autumn leaves that had frozen and were stuck to the ground by frost and ice. It nearly made him fly face first on the ground, when Harry’s tongue curled around the last letter of his name, the ‘s’ clearly pronounced and hovering in the air between them like their white puffs of air.

“That’s not my name, Harold.”

“Not anymore.”

He had told Harry, of course he had, about the time he had felt the need to make everyone call him Lewis, to eradicate any last trace of what could be used against him, could be turned into an insult, could be thrown back into his face as something ugly, as something sounding more like sissy, too camp and too much and too Louis.

“And that’s not my name either.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

In the end, it turned out that Harry really didn't know where he was going—“we're going on an adventure, Louis!” did not count—and that he had lost all orientation. Not feeling his fingers or his nose anymore, Louis ushered Harry into the nearest Coffee shop and laughed when Harry tripped over the rugged up carpet.

“You’re being mean to me.”

“I bet you use that pout to get out of any situation, don't you?” Because it was absurd how often Louis’ eyes had been drawn down to Harry's lips and how often he had lost his train of thought over the swell of his cupid bow.

“You're just lacking in concentration.”

“Ludicrous!”

The shop was warm and cosy and nothing Louis would usually go into. The walls were painted purple and there were pillows in the colours of the rainbow splattered around, lying lost on the ground and hiding deliberately in the couches’ corners. The low murmur of chitter chatter and the clinking of porcelain filled the air sweetly, while the heavy thrum of the coffee machines tickled over Louis’ and Harry’s skin.

“What can I get you?” a cheery voice interrupted Louis’ thoughts, and Harry laughed. Laughed and shook his head in a way so endearing that Louis couldn't help but compare Harry’s honest eyes and dimpled smile to the one of a mother who looked down on her pigtailed child.

“I don’t…”

“Can you surprise us? Like, just mix something together and we'll have a go?”

“Harry, that’s…” Really sweet, actually, but Louis could have sworn that their barista had shot them an annoyed look and he was not up for a showdown.

“No, Louis, this is really fun. Last time I did that, I got a pumpkin lemon latte with coconut sprinkles.”

“Oh my God, that sounds disgusting! Harry, tell me you didn't drink that!”

“Of course I did. It was one of the best things I ever drank.” He had turned to look at Louis, his teeth bright against his red lips, their colour more pronounced than ever now that they’d gained back the blood the wind had frozen in Harry’s veins. His cheeks were splotched with rosy spots, and Louis had never seen anyone more beautiful.

Almost subconsciously, he lifted his hand and tugged at one of Harry's curls, tucked it safely behind his ear again and tried not to feel Harry’s pulse race beneath his fingers.

“I’ll see what I can do, alright?” The preceding cough of the barista was pointedly ignored by Louis.

“Come on, I saw the perfect spot for us.” And suddenly, Louis was being dragged through the café by Harry, their hands intertwined, his breath stopping, and their world spinning.

The perfect spot happened to be a table that was closed off by a small screen, with numerous blankets spread over old chairs and a white tablecloth with yellowing circles like little crowns on top.

“And you swear you've never been here before?” Louis asked as he sat down and raised an eyebrow at the screen. He would have never even seen this table, and yet Harry had known exactly where to go. And that really was an accomplishment, considering that for the past thirty minutes they had been wandering around aimlessly.

He shook his head and folded his hands on the table, peering up at Louis through his eyelashes.

“Don't you trust me?”

“Trust you? Never. You are planning on becoming a lawyer.”

“Objection.”

“To what? To the implied statement that all lawyers are liars, or have you finally decided that you won’t do it?”

Whatever Harry had wanted to say before was now replaced by a prolonged silence. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s and Louis was honest to God intrigued.

“Both. I guess it’s both.”

“Why?”

Harry raised an eyebrow and fidgeted with a leftover napkin. His head turned towards the screen, actively avoiding Louis’ gaze. “Why what?” The napkin tore in half.

“What made you be so sure? Just a few days ago you seemed a bit more fickle.”

“The lying part.” Louis would not dwell on the fact that Harry was still avoiding his eyes, he wouldn’t. He was relatively certain that it meant nothing. “You’re too sweet to be a lawyer, Harry. Don’t worry, I’ve seen right through you.”

Before Louis could do the unthinkable, most stupid thing and reach over to touch Harry, the waiter arrived with two steaming cups. Nodding along to a tune heard only by himself, he set his tray down on the table.

“I want the green cup,” Louis blurted out, and grabbed the mug before Harry could argue. They were both clueless about the beverages’ flavour, so Louis might as well choose his drink (and probably his doom), by the colour of his date’s eyes.

“I guess that leaves me with no choice,” Harry joked, smiling at the waiter when he set his cup down in front of him.

“It really doesn’t.” Louis happened to like calling the shots. Admittedly, he rarely did, but every now and then he liked to mess with destiny quite a bit. Even if it was only a small, randomly green coffee cup.

“I guess this is it: certain death.” Louis picked up his new-found figure of rebellion against the world and let the soft wavering of aroma filter through his nose.

“Don't be like that. I’m sure it’ll taste amazing!” Harry’s eyes were blown wide over the brim of his auburn mug.

“I admire your effort of trying to encourage me to down the first sip, but like I said you’re an open book. I know you're just waiting for me to drink first to check if this—” feigning utter disgust, Louis scrunched up his nose and peered down at his drink, “—kills you instantly, or if you wither away slowly and ugly and—Harry, NO! My poor child!”

With an adorable cream moustache adorning his face, Harry grinned at Louis and smacked his lips.

“Like I said, it’s delicious.”

………

“I take it back, you'd make an excellent lawyer.”

“Come on now, don't be like that. It’s been over an hour.”

“Yeah, well, but I can still taste it. Right here.” Opening his mouth on a dramatic ‘ah’, Louis pointed at his tongue.

“Not my fault that your taste buds are all weird and gross.”

“Gross? I’ll show you gross!” Without thinking about the ruckus he would cause in the small café, Louis pushed his chair back and leaped over the table. Guffawing loudly, Harry exposed his neck when he threw his head back, grabbing Louis’ wrists before the older boy could smack the rest of his crêpe on his face.

Ignoring the stern looks they’d received from almost every customer around them, Louis stayed suspended in the air between them, his stomach nudging uncomfortably against the hard wood of their table and his weight pillared only by Harry’s paw like hands. Their faces were inches apart, and when Harry froze mid-laugh and came to rest in front of Louis, Louis knew that he would not wait for the tension of a third date to try and kiss the boy in front of him.

He would not, simply because he was relatively certain that he could not.

Not with someone as beautiful as Harry staring at him as if he’d hung the stars and formed the moon to perfection, as if the moon didn't have huge craters and slacks in its crust and looked more like a third grader’s drawing of a tick. Leeching off the world’s oceans and people’s imagination of something beautiful being just far away enough to be untainted by reality, but close enough for the dreamers to have walked on its surface.

As if he could hold himself back when someone with dimples the size of Louis’ thumbs smiled at him, a bit breathlessly and a bit more real than Louis would have deserved, and brushed his knuckles over cold wrists like it was nothing.

As if he would want to wait another minute to nip at his bottom lip to make him taste the residue of Louis’ drink, to make him realize how whipped he actually was for drinking it in the first place. He was the cheater of fate, remember? The one who didn't believe and gambled on his own, and he had let pure luck decide over his drink, had let Harry decide on how to proceed.

A crash made Louis jump back into his seat again, nearly taking the tablecloth with him. Clearing his throat, he blinked up at Harry and begged that his cheeks were not as red as they felt.

Swallowing something sounding a bit like a cough behind his fist, Harry squirmed around on his seat. Ironically, this time he didn't break eye contact once.

“So, what did you do over the holidays?” Louis was so good at this whole ignoring thing. He was the master of getting out of disaster, oh yes he was.

“I—uhm—was at home in Cheshire, with my family, you know. The whole traditional Christmas shebang I told you about.”

Louis was pretty sure that Harry knew exactly what he was trying to achieve by changing the topic so suddenly, but at that moment he chose not to comment on it. Or maybe his throat was still sore from holding his breath, from not breathing and holding still for the air to break between them and Louis to fall into his arms. Both were logical assumptions in Louis’ mind.

“You don’t sound so happy about that whole—” Louis drew quotation marks into the air, “—shebang.”

“No it was really, really nice, but my mind seemed to be elsewhere all the time. And let’s just say that it didn't go unnoticed.”

“What are you trying to say? That your mum threw you out when she realized that you’ve basically become the Grinch?”

“Not exactly.” And, well, that was a weird answer. Vague and nothing that Louis had expected.

“Harry, you are not the Grinch. I mean, your mouth is way too big for your face, but I think we've established that you're just weird in that aspect.” Louis hoped that the glint in his eyes was noticeable.

“When will you stop talking slander about my mouth? It’s taking all of this quite seriously.”

As if a pout would make Louis stop. Harry seemed to know nothing about the real world.

“Duly noted.” Eye contact was powerful.

“My mum actually did throw me out.”

“She did what?” Louis spluttered.

“No, not like that, dear God. No, my mum would never. I meant she, uhm, made me go after what’s been bugging me. She helped me, really; I honestly can't complain. Although I now am free and probably alone on New Year's Eve, but there are worse things.”

Louis watched the colours on Harry's face with a newfound wonder. At first, the tips of his ears got red and his cheeks gained a pinkish colour, before the splotches of embarrassment disappeared and he seemed calmer and rationally collected, almost as if he was trying not to give too much away. When his breath was already coming up short, because apparently Harry didn't breath between his words, he blushed again, the colour spreading up from his neck and slowly conquering the territory of Harry’s face.

“New Year’s Eve still a bit away, isn't it?” Louis prompted, and smiled wide when Harry finally ducked his head to hide the red blooming over his cheeks.

“I wasn't insinuating anything, just so you know.”

Oh, that was a perfect pass. Louis was back in his element again and he had found a new purpose for every conversation with Harry ever again: to make him blush beyond recovery.

“Neither was I. You’re a quick one to assume, aren't you?”

And apparently Louis had underestimated Harry, had forgotten that Harry had been the one to make Louis close his eyes and trust a stranger to walk around in his shop and play with Danny’s fuse box, because Harry didn't blush; instead, he straightened up and looked Louis dead in the eyes.

“I take it back. I did play at something there. I want to spend more time with you, maybe even New Year's Eve, maybe even more. And I was too quick to assume that you would say no, resulting in me not daring to ask further, but here it goes—I want to see you again, Louis.”

“You’re still seeing me, Harry.”

Harry giggled softly and tilted his head. Tracing Harry’s veins on his forearm as he put his chin in his hand, Louis reprimanded himself for losing his ground. The abyss in Danny’s Den was staring at him again, and he was brutally reminded of the power Harry seemed to have over him.

“I am, but I want to see more of you.” His voice had gotten rougher around the edges. Louis shivered, putting his hands around his mug to anchor him, forgetting that his coffee had gotten cold already and that it would lend no warmth anymore. He was on his own.

“Harold, there are children present!” Louis hissed and prided himself on the fact that Harry seemed to be oblivious to his emotional whirlwind.

“Now who’s insinuating something?” Cheeky bastard.

“Well, I take it back.” Harrumphing, Louis crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look as menacing as he could.

“I won't let you.” Bringing his other hand underneath his chin, Harry gazed at Louis without a care in the world.

“You what?”

“I won't let you take it back.”

“I don’t think that’s your decision to make, Harry.” Louis raised his eyebrow, tightening the hold on his forearms and caging in his beating heart.

“Oh, but I think it is. You still owe me an answer. Can I see you again?”

Honest eyes in the colour of forests of green, that’s all Louis saw. Forests so dark and trees so tall that there had to be secrets of unknown mystery between their leaves and inside their trunks. Harry’s sunflower eyes, blown wide and with a golden circle around the iris, were like the sun fighting through the leafage and falling on the ground in splattered bits of complete trust. Trust that the world would turn the same way as the year before. Louis hoped the world would stop for once, but Harry turned too fast for him to have the courage to make him trip and stumble.

Louis nodded, and Harry stopped. Louis tumbled.

“You can take it back now,” Harry breathed, and steepled his fingers together in front of him.

“Why would I?” They were turning in circles, and the world was fine with it. Who needed a universe when you had a sun? “I want to see more of you too.”

Harry kept quiet for a long time, and Louis feared that he had taken it too far. And although logic was trying to break through his thick skull and make him realize that Harry had started it, he couldn't stop his fingers from becoming clammy.

“Did you know that I have tattoos?” Harry then asked out of the blue, and Louis relaxed.

“Is this you showing me more of yourself?” he joked, trying not to picture Harry naked, his skin inked up with messages so intimate that they had deserved a place on porcelain skin forever.

Harry nodded, shook his head, and smiled.

“Me too.” Louis bit the inside of his cheek and unknotted his arms. “One here—” He pointed to the inside of his biceps. “And one down there.” He knocked his feet against Harry’s and held his breath.

“Will you tell me why you got them?”

“Someday.” And when Harry would later look back on this moment, he would realize that he had already known what the triangle on Louis’ fragile ankle meant and why he had ‘Far Away.’ shot into his bloodstream like the hit of a typewriter through paper.

He had known already, he just had to put the pieces together.

……….

“I had a lovely time today, Harry.”

“Me too.”

They were standing in front of Louis’ building and winter was being kind to them. Their breath was puffed out into the chilly air of dusk, prancing between them like dragons around gold. Louis’ back was to his entrance wall, his door on his left side, and Harry was right in front of him. Their feet were touching shyly while their chests still held their ground around the warzones of two different hearts.

“I can’t wait to do this again.” The tips of Harry’s ears had gone red from the cold, and Louis wondered not for the first time that day why Harry had forgone his beanie. The urge to tangle his hand in his hair again was getting ridiculously strong, so he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and smiled.

“When will that be?” Louis asked, and pushed his hands against the fabric of his pockets.

“You look like an adorable kangaroo.” Harry tried to stifle his giggle in his scarf, but Louis had seen his nose crinkle, and he knew that Harry found immense pleasure in moments like this.

“Do I now, Harold? You don’t look much better yourself.”

Harry tugged his scarf back underneath his chin and grinned. All of his teeth and every dimple and every crinkle were on display. “Thank you, Louis. I appreciate these kind words.”

“You’re welcome.”

If only he could just punch through the fabric of his coat and touch Harry’s stomach. If only he could, because he would; he didn't care for his stupid coat. Niall would surely lend him one of his until he could afford a new one, and if not, then he at least had Harry to keep him warm.

Harry, who against all odds looked even softer against the dull grey of Louis’ apartment complex, and even warmer against the cold white of drizzling snow behind him. Harry, whose lips were chapped from the cold but rosy like rose petals on water, and Louis didn’t want to dwell on the question if they would be as creamy to the touch as they were for his imagination.

He wanted to put the theory to the test. He wanted to know if Harry liked his lower lip nibbled or bit on, if he would wind his arms around Louis’ middle or his neck, if he was one to hold or to bend. Suddenly, Louis wanted to know it all.

“I don’t want a third date,” he blurted out, and nearly smacked his skull against the cobbled stones behind him because of his stupidity. “I mean, I don't want the tension of one. I want that now.”

Harry’s brows were furrowed and his lips were puckered and everything was unfair.

“I want to kiss you,” Louis whispered. He feared that the smoke of his breath had swallowed the sound of his voice, but suddenly Harry’s face split open and he smiled like a lunatic, and he knew that he had heard him.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

And then he was in his space, his arms were around his neck, and their breath was not foggy anymore because there was no space left between their mouths for it to precipitate. Louis smiled, pressing his waist against Harry and bumping his hands against his stomach until Harry laughed into the kiss. Happy breathlessness intermingled with throaty moans. Petulantly, Louis untangled his hands and wound them around Harry’s middle, trying to catch his lips again. They were too far away for his liking and they trembled too much from laughter when they could have been firm against his own.

He pulled at Harry’s coat and squeezed his waist, sighing contently when Harry stumbled into him. The brick wall behind him was hard and uncomfortable, but the promise of having Harry to press up against made him ignore his back’s complaints.

Harry kissed the way he talked: slow, but with hidden intent and a lot more meaning than a sloppy kiss against a wall should have had. His tongue was a slow drag against the incessant tugging of his teeth at Louis’ bottom lip. Louis tried to make him either pay for rendering him this helpless, or reward him for giving him such a safe space inside of his arms.

Either way, he clashed against his mouth clumsily, trying to get a taste of Harry. Their noses bumped into each other and Louis banged his teeth against Harry’s more than once, but it was perfect. Harry’s lips were still dry from the cold, and Louis could taste the sweet flavour of lip balm—vanilla, if he wasn't mistaken—and when their tongues met, he could taste the sour flavour of Harry’s lucky drink. He would never decide over fate again, as Harry’s drink must have been a million times better than his if Harry’s tongue and the remnants of apple were anything to go by.

“Can we… can I…?” Harry didn’t dare tear his lips away from Louis long enough to finish his question, but Louis was curious. So he pulled back, craned his neck, and panted into Harry's face. His lips were glistening with spit and red from Louis´ teeth.  
“What is it?” He asked, yet he didn’t maintain eye contact long enough to give Harry a real chance to answer. Instead, he pushed himself up on his tippy toes and pressed a kiss against Harry’s pulse point.

“I’m just wondering—Louis, please!”

Louis bit down.

“Can we go inside?” Harry sounded out of breath; his chest was expanding too wide and pushing against Louis’ rib cage. Louis clamped down on Harry’s skin, nodding as he soothed the purpling skin with his tongue and started to loosen his hold on Harry’s waist to grab his keys.

He was ready for his flat to be infiltrated by a hurricane, destructive but ten times more beautiful when it was done causing havoc, when everything was rearranged by a touch of Harry.

Nuzzling into Harry’s neck once more, Louis turned in his embrace and fumbled with the lock. He had always hated it, had hated the rusty handle and the fact that the lock was about two inches above his head. Because that apparently made sense. Zayn had tried to explain the beauty behind that construction many times now, but frankly Louis didn’t care.

He didn't care, because there was a boy pressed to his back and there was hope in his chest and he felt new words bubbling up in his lungs.

And he realized that that’s where his words came from. Of course his head would translate them into a language and his hands would write them down and his eyes would prove their worth, but his lungs filtered the polluted air of the world outside and spit out the beauty Louis knew how to show. It was like breathing, like photosynthesis, and Harry was the sun.

“Louis…” Harry sighed into his ear, and Louis fell back down to earth. Maybe that feeling of alertness and the sudden ability to turn the key just right, with the right amount of pressure to the left and a shoulder to the right side of the door, maybe that feeling was falling in love.

Falling in love had always been an idiom Louis didn't seem to be able to understand. Falling was supposed to hurt; he knew that from first-hand experience, from falling down his neighbour’s cherry tree when he was six and from falling from his bike when he was ten and believed he would take off into the skies above if he didn't hit the brakes. But falling in love was surely more akin to flying, more like the feeling of being on top of the world even though one was only about two feet above the ground and the cherries were heavy from being pulled towards the inevitable earth anyway, more like the feeling of believing in reaching the clouds with a rattling bike and spoke beads clanging loudly.

But now, he understood. Now that he had fallen back down to earth and crashed into Harry's chest, hurt himself with Harry’s unmistakable presence and the inevitability that he would invade and conquer Louis’ space, now he understood.

He pulled Harry into the dark space of his entrance hall. It smelled like old newspapers and a bit like wet dog, even though Louis was pretty sure that their only neighbours with a dog had moved out two months ago. Louis could detect a hint of cold cigarette smoke, and he shivered involuntarily and grabbed Harry's hand. He needed to get him upstairs.

“I didn't clean up, so it might be...” He was once again talking against Harry’s lips, and he was sure that he had no influence on any of this. His body was taking the lead. It was almost like his heart had found its hidden life purpose of being a magnet and pulled with all its might towards Harry now. Almost childishly, it seemed, with a hint of danger, as they tumbled along the banister.

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Harry mumbled, and before Louis could further protest Harry had pushed the door open and dragged Louis into the tight space of home.

“Do you want anything to drink?” His mother would be so fucking proud of him right now, Louis randomly thought as he tried to keep a chink of space between their bodies by grabbing Harry’s shoulders. He needed to concentrate.

“No, I'd rather just continue this, if that’s alright.”

Harry’s eyes were golden.

Yes, Louis knew that that was rubbish, because Harry’s eyes were clearly green and even that colour seemed to have vanished with how his pupils were blown wide and the black took up all the room in them, but they were. Louis let his head fall back against the wall Harry had pushed him towards, and closed his eyes.

“That’s—” He gulped and forced his eyes to open again. “That’s more than alright.”

And Louis didn't even know when Zayn would be back; he knew that he was with Niall and his family somewhere and also that he was sure to come back sooner or later, but he didn't care. Harry needed to be introduced to him anyway. He didn't want to relive the fear of having Harry for himself and fearing the paranoia of dreams that came with beautiful things like Harry.

Dreams could be forgotten, but Harry couldn’t.

Dreams were untouchable like air, but Harry was bones and blood and skin, and Louis could feel his hairs stand on edge and his emotions rush in blue colours, speeding on fast lines to life, and he could touch the little bumps of his vertebrae.

Not thinking twice and filled with the sudden realisation that he knew exactly what he had to do, he made Harry trip against him, and tangled a hand in the curls at the back of his neck, and then he used that and the support of the wall to clamber into Harry's arms so that his arms locked around his neck and his legs were scissoring his waist.

At first, Harry’s knees seemed to buckle, and Louis felt his back crash against the wall a bit more forcefully than he had expected, but then Harry gathered himself and scooped Louis up by his thighs and asked the only important question there was:

“Where.” A kiss. “Is.” Hard against already bruised lips. ”Your.” A kiss. “Room.” Soft against the fleeting breath from Louis lips.

“The door to the left.”

A hard nod, and then Louis was flying. Only one foot over the ground, but closer to the clouds than he had ever been.

Louis didn’t know how they ended up on his bed. Harry had done the walking, after all, but he knew that Harry’s weight on top of him was more than what he could have asked for and that he needed their clothes to come off. They still had their coats on, for fuck’s sake.

“Off.”

He yanked at Harry’s clothes, trying to find the collar of his coat in order for him to pull it off, but the fabric didn't budge. Moaning impatiently, he dropped his hands to Harry’s bum and, after an appreciative glide to the back of his thighs and a short squeeze, he pushed his hands underneath Harry’s clothes and sank his fingers into his overheated skin.

“Yes, yes, yes…” Harry chanted, and suddenly he broke away to scuttle to the end of the bed. Shedding his clothes like Zayn swatted away flies, as if they were a terrible nuisance that could burn for all he cared. “You too, Lou.”

Louis was relatively certain that there hadn't been a moment in his life where he had ever been this conflicted. He wanted to cut his fingers off for making his job so fucking hard and apparently not cooperating at all anymore. Of course, that would be the dumbest thing he could do right now, because well, they did still have a job to fulfil.

Ripping his scarf from his head and getting his beanie off at the same time, he let his head fall back onto the pillows and pushed his feet against Harry’s thighs. And because Harry was a wonderful human being, he got the message and pulled his shoes off for him, dropping them unceremoniously on the ground along with his layers and layers of clothing. Now Louis was really pissed, because he might have gotten rid of his shoes, but there was still so much to do, and he really just wanted to touch Harry.

Harry, who was topless by now and unfastening his belt with the flick of his wrist, and his body was fucking wonderful. Louis let out a frustrated groan, surging up to meet Harry’s mouth with more than a little bit of enraged fervour behind the kiss and the clank of their teeth.

“You on top. Now,” Harry demanded, and pushed at Louis’ hips to get him off his lap. Rolling underneath Louis, Harry glanced up at him through hooded eyes and let Louis take his time. Time enough to see the flashes of ink against Harry’s skin and time enough to realize that he was now getting to know the truest part of Harry, the one where his forehead was slick with perspiration and his chest red from the blood trying to rush down, down, down. Time enough to strip out of his coat and to bunch his jumper up to his shoulders before he decided to screw it and let himself fall down on Harry again.

Harry’s leg fell open immediately, and Louis slotted himself between them, rutting against Harry’s thighs with the non-existent shame of a sixteen year old. The relief he felt from that tiny point of contact was enough to make him forget about that, and Harry’s answering groan was enough to keep him going. He felt Harry’s hands walk up and down the knobs of his spine and he felt his hands tense up every time they came in contact with the soft washed fabric of his jumper.

Mindlessly, Louis attached himself to Harry’s neck and continued his journey down, adding one, two, three more bruises to his feverish skin, kissing the pain away, before he bore down with his teeth again. And then, he made his way down towards Harry’s collarbones. He pressed his nose against the subtle dusting of hair to inhale the scent of him, his hands roaming Harry’s ribs as if they were a part of the human anatomy he had never heard of.

Every dip between each rib felt like a new wave of pure adrenalin, like a tsunami of breaths Harry was holding in. It was like Louis had control over Harry’s breathing. Which was stupid, because Harry needed to breathe no matter what Louis did, and he would keep on breathing no matter what Louis did, but the soft fluttering of his chest and the pained releases of air were enough to lull him into that fantasy.

The boy beneath him shuddered in the most wonderful ways when he scratched down his stomach and clawed his hands into his jeans, pushing into Louis’ awaiting palm, like every wet dream he'd ever had. Combined, probably.

Louis was about to duck down and finally get a taste of Harry, when he felt himself being pulled up again by the collar of his sweater. Only when Harry had succeeded in roughly pulling it off and over his head—Louis was mildly concerned for the state of his hair—did Harry flop back down against Louis’ sheets and spread his arms. Like a bird, he spread his wings, and Louis saw black splotches of ink on his featherless wings. He saw claws tearing into his comforter. Maybe Harry was a dinosaur. Those had had claws and wings, right?

Not the point.

Louis leaned more towards an alien, anyway.

He struggled with Harry’s jeans like he had feared he would. The fabric was too tightly wound around Harry’s thighs and Louis’ hands were still out of order. But with just the right tilt of Harry’s hips, one that was rewarded with an almost chaste kiss to the faint dots of Harry’s Might As Well tattoo (something Louis was taking quite literal at the moment), he managed to get it past his knees.

And that had to do for now. Hungry for more, he bent down and nosed along the bulge in Harry’s boxers. A wet spot had already formed at the waistband, and Louis was almost giddy with the images that flooded his mind.

Kissing the wetness on Harry’s boxers, Louis tugged his pants down to where Harry’s jeans already were, practically immobilizing Harry by doing so and flicked his fringe out of his eyes.

“You're beautiful.”

Louis looked up. “Harry, I´m drooling over you dick, I don't think beautiful is the proper description.” Unashamed, Louis cupped his own crotch and palmed himself through his jeans, letting Harry know what he made him feel.

“No, you should—” He shuddered in a breath and pressed his nose into the pillow, completely turning away from Louis. “You should see yourself.”

“Another time, maybe.” Louis shrugged for effect, but Harry didn't react, so Louis lifted his shoulders once more solely for his own benefit before he opened his mouth and kitten licked at the tip of Harry's cock.

With his left hand, the one that wasn't currently trying to relieve the pressure on himself, he grabbed the base of Harry and took a deep breath. Engulfed completely in the smell of Harry and the heady scent of arousal, Louis surged down, taking as much as he could at a time, until he could feel his mouth bump against his fist. Harry was chanting his name above him, and Louis tuned his ears to that sound alone. The distracting scratch of eager hands on hard jeans, or the slurping of his mouth, was nothing compared to the symphony of Harry’s whimpers.

Getting turned on more and more himself, Louis tried to pick up his speed, careful to not let his lips slip from his teeth, nor to forget to harden his tongue to a small roll, every time he got to the tip of Harry’s member, where he made sure to nurse the pulsing vein on the underside. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulders and he looked up, his mouth still full of Harry.

Harry Harry Harry.

“Oh my God,” Harry panted, letting his hand glide over Louis hair and down the side of his cheek, holding him steady with his hand pressed against his ear, his thumb outlining his own member inside of Louis’ mouth. “I want to…”

Louis nodded prematurely, thinking that Harry wanted to grip his hair and guide him. He trusted him enough to let go of that bit of control, but Harry shook his head and craned his neck. He looked as if he was trying to stretch his trachea; as if breathing was just getting too damn hard.

“No, don't make me come yet. Please, I want to—” He gasped for air, and Louis pulled off, blowing softly over the glistening tip. “I want to come inside of you. I… please—”

Completely blown away by Harry’s request, Louis nodded dumbly and took Harry down again, aching for him to hit the back of his throat one more time before he pushed himself off and sat back on his hunches.

At first they just stared at each other, as if time had suddenly stopped moving and an invisible ribbon had been stretched between them. Harry was spread out all for Louis’ taking, and he wanted to take him apart, but not like this. Not today.

Then the ribbon snapped, and Louis moved. He scrambled to the edge of the bed, pushed himself up and finally clambered out of his clothes. He felt Harry’s eyes tracing the line of his back, and he shivered. Almost tripping over his own feet, he lunged towards his nightstand and ripped open the first drawer. When he got a hold of his lube and a package of condoms, he practically jumped back into the bed on Harry, dropping his findings next to him.

“But with this.”

“Course, course. Just—” Harry cursed and cupped Louis’ head, smashing their lips together. There was no finesse behind it anymore. There was too much tongue and too little time to control the movements of their lips. They were just breathing each other in, their tongues trying to get as much of the other’s taste as possible.

Struggling out of the last pieces of his jeans, Harry managed to drape himself over Louis, his arms straining next to Louis’ head. And skin on skin—Louis had missed it, had missed the feeling of a thundering heart against his ribcage and the pressure of grinding hips against straining legs. Claiming Harry was all he wanted.

He scratched his nails down his spine, hovering over the dips on the low of his back, savouring the softness of Harry’s sweat-slick skin, before he grabbed his bum and pressed him as close to himself as possible. His legs were caging Harry’s middle, and the friction between them was phenomenal. And too much. Too much to bear, and yet Louis arched his back and rolled his hips against Harry’s in a desperate attempt to find release.

Harry traced Louis’ sides, and when he heard the cap of his lube bottle clap open, he stopped breathing. Cold fingers searched his body and mapped out his skin, wet fingers found his bum and traced his crack, bumping teasingly against his hole, but never quite going there.

“If you don't start right now, I'm going to flip us over and ride you until you forget you fucking name, Styles.”

Harry’s elbows buckled and his weight crashed down on Louis, but when he moved, he moved all the way. With one finger already inside of him, Harry slithered down his body, peppering him with kisses and nibbling at his stomach until he had Louis’ knees on the sides of his head and a full view of Louis’ hole. Sucking at the sensitive skin of Louis’ inner thigh, he started to move in and out and tried to still Louis’ questioning hips with a firm hand on his abdomen.

And Louis gave himself over just like that. With the warmth of Harry’s hand against his skin, he relaxed and opened up, took more and more of him, sucked him in greedily, all the while tangling their fingers together on top of his stomach.

Just when he thought that he couldn't take it anymore, when his hand was sweaty against Harry’s palm and his thighs strained from trying to keep them from literally crushing Harry’s head, he heard a tinfoil package tear in two.

He took his first real breath, exhaling on a soft, “Yes”.

“You’re so, so beautiful, Lou.” Harry sounded just as breathless, and the heat radiating from his skin made Louis feel safer than he had in a long time.

“You really need to update your dirty talk.”

Letting go of Louis’ hand, Harry rolled the condom over himself, holding firmly to the base of his cock lest he came before he could really get to it. Steadying himself with the same hand, he sunk down into the tight heat of Louis and moaned.   
Trying to regulate his breathing, Louis searched for Harry’s hand again, who took it and pressed it down next to Louis’ head, lacing their fingers together once more.

“Please, move, I’m ready.” Impatiently, Louis bucked his hips up and nearly died from a stroke when Harry pushed down the exact same moment. Their noses were bumping against each other and Louis tried to keep his eyes open, but Harry’s face was blurry from the close proximity and his body was on fire. In the end, he tilted his head up and caught Harry’s bottom lip between his own, surrendering to the feel of it.

The bump and grind, the sound of sighs, and the needy scratch of skin on skin. The light tremor in his thighs as he wrapped them more firmly against Harry’s middle and the flexing of Harry’s muscles every time he pushed in. This was the closest he would ever get to heaven, and he was taking full advantage of it, marking Harry’s body up like he had any right to, trying to tie him down to this night like Harry had tied him to himself.

And when he felt the pressure build up to that silent moment before the wave crashed against the shore and took everything away with it, his jaw slackened and he panted Harry’s name, waited for him to swallow the moans like his wave would swallow Harry. He did, and they crashed, and they surprisingly didn’t burn. But when did water ever do that anyway?

They collapsed and smiled and never stopped touching each other. Their hands still intertwined.

…….

Louis woke up to something tickling his nose.

Confused, he turned his head, only to end up with a handful of hair in his mouth.

Harry.

Smiling, he forced his eyes open (he still didn't like mornings) and pushed Harry’s hair out of his face. Harry’s back was to his chest, his ankles between Harry’s thighs, and the blankets were a tangled mess around them. Harry was only covered up from the waist down, while Louis had managed to wrap himself completely into it. And yet Harry was still the one who seemed to have harboured all the heat in the room. His arm was draped over Harry’s stomach; he started drawing tiny circles on it without even taking notice of it.

Harry’s mouth was hanging wide open, and if Louis wasn't completely mistaken, there even was a small patch of drool on his pillow case. Even so, he had never seen anything more precious. Stifling his giggle in Harry’s neck, he kissed along Harry’s shoulder blades and shivered when he retraced the bruises he had left behind.

Last night had really happened. They had kissed and touched each other long after Harry had ridden himself of the condom and Louis of the sticky mess on his stomach. They had kissed until they’d drifted in and out of sleep, and Louis had kissed Harry when he had started snoring. They had snuggled up at night, twisting and turning, until Louis woke up with an arm full of Harry and a mouth full of curls.

Lost in thoughts about last night, Louis stared at Harry’s tattoos and tried to find any possible meaning behind them. There were so many small ones, ink that seemed to have been drawn in the most random pattern but fitting together just like snowflakes did on the ground.

Suddenly Harry stirred next to him, and Louis froze. Had it been weird that he had been awake for so long already and that he hadn't woken him up? It was weird, wasn't it? He tried to pull away as softly as possible as to not startle Harry even more, but then he felt a hand close around his own on Harry’s stomach and he stopped.

“Morning.”

“G’morning,” Louis breathed, and shivered where he had felt Harry’s back vibrate against his chest, the rumble of his morning voice even worse than Louis could have ever imagined.

“Hey.” Harry slowly turned in his arms, until he was lying completely on his back, drunkenly blinking up at him.

And Louis was weak, so, so weak for him, so he leaned down and captured Harry’s lips in a soft kiss, morning breath be damned. Harry didn't push him away at least, so he took that as his cue to tangle his hands in his hair again and roll on top of him.

“Did you sleep well?” Harry asked, slipping the blankets from Louis’ shoulders down to his waist.

“Like a baby. You're a great radiator.” Louis’ words were mumbled against the trembling lips of Harry, and the world had never been more okay.

“Thank you.” The hands splayed on Louis’ back weren’t just tracing anymore, they were mapping out the lines of his muscles and the spots that made Louis shiver. They touched the dips of his spine and carved a promise into his neck.  
“Breakfast?” Harry asked.

Louis shook his head, his hands roaming through the tangled mob on Harry’s head. “I don’t get out of bed on Sundays.”

“You don't what?” Harry laughed, and Louis felt like flying.

Louis hated explaining his small and insignificant habits, habits that had nothing to do with having become accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle, but more to do with his constant battle with the outside world. He was a coward in every sense of the word and he needed to hide from the world of habits once a week. If he had developed a routine by doing that, then so be it.

However, a meek: “Not until it is completely necessary,” was all he had to offer to Harry right now.

“Some would argue that breakfast is worth getting out of bed for, but since you have me with you, I’ll offer to let you stay in.”

“You would make me breakfast in bed?” Louis gasped, and pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better look at Harry, who nodded. “But you can’t!” Panic was a fickle thing. “You have to stay in here with me! Our very own fort!”

“I've gotten into bed with a madman.” The little slits of Harry’s eyes when he laughed made Louis think of cinnamon swirls in milk, when he used to make his cereal before school. And he didn't know what scared him more, that comparison or the way his brain worked and when it decided to retrieve which memory.

“You have.” Nothing would ever be more accurate.

“What if I have to pee?”

“You’re asking the serious questions now, aren’t you?” Harry was so confusing sometimes. Louis really couldn't get enough of it.

“It’s a fair point!” Harry exclaimed.

“Do you? Have to go to the loo, I mean?”

“Well no, but…”

“That's settled then.”

And the responding smile, the fond curl of lips and the crinkle of the nose, was blinding.

……..

“Why did your mum throw you out?”

“Hmm?” Harry was half asleep again, their second morning round having worn them down, with their skin still slick with sweat and sticky with come, and oily from lube that had somehow gotten everywhere. Harry’s face was smushed into the pillows and his limbs were spread around him like a starfish, but Louis had found a niche in-between where he sighed contentedly into Harry’s biceps.

“You said your mum kicked you out for your own good. What was it that you were too dumb to see for yourself?”

Harry nudged his nose against Louis’ scalp until he caved and craned his neck up to look at him. “That’s what had you so quiet these past five minutes?”

“No, my orgasm had me this taciturn for the past five minutes. That question had me in a freaking race against my mind for a bit longer.”

“Feisty one, aren't you?”

“You know I am.” And as if to prove his point, Louis bit down on Harry’s black ink heart.

“I was whining about a boy.” Louis’ ears perked up and he snuggled deeper into Harry’s side. “I was whining about a boy, and she had run out of advice to give, so she drove me to the train station under the pretence of getting new candles for our Christmas tree, and just pushed me out, telling me to sort out my heart.”

“She sounds like a force to be reckoned with,” Louis smiled.

“She gave me enough money for the ticket. And she sent me my clothes back. She’s a good mum.”

“Wait, so you came to the shop directly from the train?” This boy was getting more and more ridiculous. The fact that Louis had ever doubted him seemed light-years away.

Harry’s chin bumped against Louis’ head as he nodded. “She also told me that I was really bad at lying, thinking that I could fool her, in making her believe that I could make you out to be an ass, when clearly you had been anything but.”

There were the whispers again, the hushed honesty that seemed to be chasing them.

“You're too sweet to be a lawyer, Harry.”

“A very wise man once told me the same thing.”

“He sounds like a good man.” Louis’ eyelids began to droop, and he tried to hide his yawn in the comforter but failed. Tragically.

“A mad one, maybe.”

They fell asleep smiling.

……

Harry woke up the sound of a loud bang.

Cracking his stiff joints, he tried to get out of bed as slyly as possible without risking waking Louis, but Louis was one step ahead of him.

“I swear to God if that’s Zayn, I'm going to kill him.”

Harry snapped his head around and looked down at Louis. His eyes were still closed, but his forehead was in frowns and his bottom lip was sticking out adorably. So, definitely awake then.

“You're awake,” he stated while he tried to make a grab for his boxers.

“No one could have slept through that, Harold.” He pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Who’s Zayn?” Harry asked and stepped into his pants, snapping the elastic waistband dramatically around his waist.

“Nooo, keep that off. Off, I say! Get back in bed. I’ll look who it was. Maybe it’s a burglar and I need to protect you! So off with your stupid clothes and back into bed.” Louis scrambled to the edge of the bed, where Harry was standing and pouted at the fabric covering Harry’s crotch.

“If there is a burglar in your flat, then why would I want to lie back down in your bed? Naked!”

“Because of reasons,” Louis demanded, tugging at the black fabric.

“I’m an idiot.” Harry sighed and flopped back down next to Louis.

“True, but why now?”

“Because I’m staying here. Go fight off a burglar for me, Louis.”

Sticking his tongue out at the boy in his bed, Louis jumped out of bed and made a beeline for his sweatpants that lay crumpled on the floor. Tidiness be damned.

Feeling Harry’s eyes on him the whole time, he stepped out of the room and craned his neck to see into the kitchen. Nothing. Tip toeing into the living room, he shouted Zayn’s name in a whisper, but he didn't receive an answer.

Peeking over the headrest of the couch and behind their jacket rack, he sidled over to Zayn’s room and knocked.

“Zayn? Are you home?” He pushed the door open and cringed at the creaking sound. And there he was, lying in the middle of his bed, his face tucked into his pillows, squealing with joy. And maybe that scared Louis even more.

“Zaynie?” He sat down next to him. “Is everything alright with you and Niall?” he asked tentatively, stroking his mate’s hair until he turned his head and grinned up at him.

“More than okay!” And then he started babbling about dads and mums and a brother and family dinners and awkwardness and the feeling of finally holding Niall's hand in front of his family. And the shock of kindness that they had been shown. And the slap Niall had gotten on the back of his head for thinking that his family would be anything but accepting, and the hug that Zayn had received, and how Greg—Niall’s brother, didn’t Louis pay attention?—had asked him about wedding plans. And wasn’t that ridiculous, marriage? They weren't even living together yet!

All Louis could do was smile and smile and smile, and think of Harry. “I’m proud of you, Zayn,” he mumbled, and took Zayn's hand. He really was.

“Niall wants to throw a huge New Year's Eve Party, Lou. He wants to invite his family. Can you imagine?”

“Can Harry come too?” Louis asked, and in that moment he was sure that he looked just as happy as Zayn. This Christmas really was full of wonders.

“Harry’s here?” Zayn asked, finally pushing himself up into a sitting position. When Louis nodded sheepishly, Zayn laughed and shoved him away. “So that’s why you reek of sex! Get away from me, man.”

“Do you want breakfast in bed? Harry offered.” And okay, maybe Harry had only offered to do it for him, but this had to count as an honest exception.

“I think the kitchen sounds fine enough.” Zayn smiled and pushed Louis out of his room, trying to get him into the shower.

“That must have been a lovely robber,” Harry smirked as Louis came barrelling towards him and jumped up on the mattress.

“It was Zayn.” Louis pouted and searched for Harry’s lips. He caught them before Harry could gasp in mock mortification, so instead he laughed into Louis’ mouth.

“I hope you didn't kill him.”

“I should have, but no. He has finally come out to his boyfriend’s family. He’s on cloud nine, actually.”

And if Louis had thought that Harry’s face couldn't resemble the epitome of happiness anymore, Harry threw his head back and pushed up against the pillows, puffing the happiness into Louis like a machine. Like a broken bubble gum machine, he gave three laughs for the price of one, and Louis felt extraordinary.

“Breakfast?” he asked, nipping on Louis earlobe, losing his point of contact when Louis nodded viciously. The shower could wait.

Louis loved watching people he loved interact, especially if they got on along as great as Harry and Zayn did at the moment. They were all picking at Harry’s deliciously scrambled eggs on toast, laughing and talking like they had known each other for years, and Louis’ paranoia subsided.

This was what it should be like, a dream come true, reality like a dream, and happiness distributed on all of them equally.

He couldn't wait for more.

………

Midnight was creeping around the corner, and snow was falling again. Thick and beautiful and Harry, who was dancing in between the little flakes falling onto London pavement, and everything Louis wanted at the moment.

“Lou, Lou, Lou! Look!” Harry laughed and twirled around, his tongue outstretched and trying to catch the whirling drops of ice, the frozen packages of water that had probably seen more of the world than Louis and Harry combined and who still chose to fall down on the silliness of two boys on the streets of London.

“You're ridiculous Harry,” Louis laughed, but jumped into his boy’s arms nevertheless, craning his head up to catch more snow than Harry, knowing of his advantage now that the was sitting on top of Harry’s waist and blocking the snow from even getting to Harry’s lips.

“Right back at you.” Harry stumbled and hid his face in the crook of Louis’ neck, the only part that wasn't covered in layers and layers of clothing right now.

“We’re ridiculous!” Louis shouted and waited for his voice to dissipate into the night sky. Looking up, he saw the glowing windows of his flat, where about thirty people were currently trying to fight for a place to stand and a person to kiss and a wish to mumble, where gold was replaced by giddiness for a new start, and where the sound of laughter echoed against hollow walls. Up there, there were Zayn and Niall having the time of their lives, and Liam dancing with a girl on his arm who was perfect for him.

Down here, right here, were Harry and Louis playing around like children in the snow under stars that were gliding across the night sky like the fireworks that would illuminate the streets in mere minutes. They had run down the very moment Louis had noticed the first patches of white reclaiming their spots on the ground, the moment Harry’s eyes had widened comically and he had grabbed Louis’ hand.

They had sprinted down those stupid stairs and out onto the streets like their lives had depended on it. They had laughed all the way through.

“I never liked snow,” Louis admitted and tipped Harry’s head up to meet his eyes.

“Why not?” Harry pouted, smacking his lips against Louis’ once.

“Always made me feel kind of vulnerable,” he said, thinking of the times he had felt as if everyone around him could feel beauty and he only vomited it up. As if everyone around him had inspiration for childlike wonder and he was simply trying to purge his lungs, trying to survive the suffocating of words, and the thickness of white around Christmas time.

“I like to think that it blankets all hope for a while, so that we can appreciate it anew in spring. I like to think that snow is trying to say thank you, thank you for giving me a place to stay after wandering around all year, from earth to pavement, from ground to sea, from tree to rose, from sky to puddle, thank you for letting me come to a halt. And then there’s New Year's Eve and it has to leave again, because people want a new start and snow is sooo yesterday.”

Harry grinned at his obvious Gossip Girl reference, and Louis just shook his head, too occupied by the thought that Harry was kind of perfect for him. In every aspect.

“And then it leaves again and it’s like it never happened at all.”

“I can't believe you happened,” Louis breathed, and if he had ever said one thing even more cheesy than that, and if he ever did again, he needed receipts, because this might top it all.

“I came in with the snow, after all,” Harry smiled softly, as if he thought the same thing about Louis as well.

Louis blushed, and the fireworks went off, and Harry kissed him hard.

…………

If in the following years, every time when December crept up on them Louis turned into a sappy marshmallow and told Harry that he could never give him a better birthday present then the one that he had given him on his twenty second, then so be it.

And if Harry’s first proposal ended with him and Louis waiting patiently in the waiting room of a hospital, because Louis had thrown the artificial snowball where Harry had hidden the ring in directly on Harry’s head, nearly knocking him out, then so be it.

And if Zayn moved out and into Niall’s flat, only to have Harry move into his old spot and into Louis’ life a month later, then Louis was the last one to complain.

And if the news reported that the snowstorm of 2013 was the snowstorm of a century and would most probably never occur again, then Louis was the luckiest man alive.

And if Harry got more and more tattoos, and Louis inked the same adoration into his other arm, then no one had to know. They blanketed their hope under their clothes and only let the warmth of touches melt away the doubt of day.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I hope that I did your prompt justice Creativewritings and I hope you'll have a lovely holiday <3
> 
> And then I would like to thank three very important people!
> 
> First and foremost the two precious idiots that I call my best friends, who had to endure weekly break downs because of this story, and who read through all of this loyally and without any complaints! You are the loveliest and bestest people I could ever hope for. So thank you thank you THANK YOU!!  
> And you, my sweetie pie Maddie, you are an angel sent straight over the atlantic ocean just to help me <3\. Your patience is admirable and without your keen eyes this story wouldn't be what it is now. So THANK YOU xoxo
> 
> And last but not least I want to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year <3 <3


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